THE  DESERT  TRAIL 


'So  she  gave  me  her  hand  and  away  we  went. 


THE  DESERT 
TRAIL 


BY 

DANE  COOLIDGE 

AUTHOR  OF 

BAT  WING  BOWLES 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

DOUGLAS  DUER  AND  P.  J.  MONAHAN 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAR 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  ifig;  BY 
W.  I.  WATT  is  COMPANY    , 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL 


THE    DESERT   TRAIL 


THE  slow-rolling  winter's  sun  rose  coldly, 
far  to  the  south,  riding  up  from  behind 
the  saw-toothed  Sierras  of  Mexico  to  throw 
a  silvery  halo  on  Gadsden,  the  border  city.  A 
hundred  miles  of  desert  lay  in  its  path — a  waste  of 
broken  ridges,  dry  arroyos,  and  sandy  plains — 
and  then  suddenly,  as  if  by  magic,  the  city  rose 
gleaming  in  the  sun. 

It  was  a  big  city,  for  the  West,  and  swarming 
with  traffic  and  men.  Its  broad  main  street, 
lined  with  brick  buildings  and  throbbing  with 
automobiles,  ran  from  the  railroad  straight  to  the 
south  until,  at  a  line,  it  stopped  short  and  was  lost 
in  the  desert. 

That  line  which  marked  the  sudden  end  of  growth 
and  progress  was  the  border  of  the  United  States; 
the  desert  was  Mexico.  And  the  difference  was  not 
in  the  land,  but  in  the  government. 

As  the  morning  air  grew  warm  and  the  hoar 
frost  dripped  down  from  the  roofs  the  idlers  of  the 
town  crept  forth,  leaving  chill  lodgings  and  stale 

saloons  for  the  street  corners  and  the  sun. 

i 

M13736 


2  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

Against  the  dead  wall  of  a  big  store  the  Mexicans 
gathered  in  shivering  groups,  their  blankets  wrapped 
around  their  necks  and  their  brown  ankles  bare  to 
the  wind.  On  another  corner  a  bunch  of  cowboys 
stood  clannishly  aloof,  eying  the  passing  crowd  for 
others  of  their  kind. 

In  this  dun  stream  which  flowed  under  the  morn 
ing  sun  there  were  mining  men,  with  high-laced 
boots  and  bulging  pockets;  graybeards,  with  the 
gossip  of  the  town  in  their  cheeks;  hoboes,  still 
wearing  their  Eastern  caps  and  still  rustling  for  a 
quarter  to  eat  on;  somber-eyed  refugees  and  sol 
diers  of  fortune  from  Mexico — but  idlers  all,  and 
each  seeking  his  class  and  kind. 
,  If  any  women  passed  that  way  they  walked  fast, 
looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left;  for  they, 
too,  being  so  few,  missed  their  class  and  kind. 

Gadsden  had  become  a  city  of  men,  huge-limbed 
and  powerful  and  with  a  questing  look  in  their  eyes; 
a  city  of  adventurers  gathered  from  the  ends  of 
the  world.  A  common  calamity  had  driven  them 
from  their  mines  and  ranches  and  glutted  the  town 
with  men;  for  the  war  was  on  in  Mexico  and  from 
the  farthermost  corners  of  Sonora  they  still  came, 
hot  from  some  new  scene  of  murder  and  pillage,  to 
add  their  modicum  to  the  general  discontent. 

As  the  day  wore  on  the  crowd  on  the  bank  cor 
ner,  where  the  refugees  made  their  stand,  changed 
its  complexion,  grew  big,  and  stretched  far  up  the 
street.  Men  stood  in  shifting  groups,  talking, 
arguing,  gazing  moodily  at  those  who  passed. 

Here  were  hawk-eyed  Texas  cattlemen,   think- 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  3 

ing  of  their  scattered  herds  at  Mababi  or  El  Tigre; 
mining  men,  with  idle  prospects  and  deserted  mines 
as  far  south  as  the  Rio  Yaqui;  millmen,  ranchers, 
and  men  of  trades — all  driven  in  from  below  the  line 
and  all  charing  at  the  leash.  While  a  hundred  petty 
chiefs  stood  out  against  Madero  and  lived  by  ransom 
and  loot,  they  must  cool  their  heels  in  Gadsden  and 
wait  for  the  end  to  come. 

Into  this  seething  mass  of  the  dispossessed,  many 
of  whom  had  lost  a  fortune  by  the  war,  there  came 
two  more,  with  their  faces  still  drawn  and  red  from 
hard  riding  through  the  cold.  They  stepped  forth 
from  the  marble  entrance  of  the  big  hotel  and  swung 
off  down  the  street  to  see  the  town. 

They  walked  slowly,  gazing  into  the  strange  faces 
in  the  vague  hope  of  finding  some  friend;  and  Gads- 
den,  not  to  be  outdone,  looked  them  over  curiously 
and  wondered  whence  they  had  come. 

The  bunch  of  cowboys,  still  loitering  on  the 
corner,  glanced  scornfully  at  the  smaller  man, 
who  sported  a  pair  of  puttees — and  then  at  the  big 
man's  feet.  Finding  them  encased  in  prospector's 
ihoes  they  stared  dumbly  at  his  wind-burned  face 
and  muttered  among  themselves. 

He  was  tall,  and  broad  across  the  shoulders, 
with  far-seeing  blue  eyes  and  a  mop  of  light  hair; 
and  he  walked  on  his  toes,  stiff-legged,  swaying 
from  the  hips  like  a  man  on  horseback.  The  rum 
ble  of  comment  rose  up  again  as  he  racked  past  and 
then  a  cowboy  voice  observed: 

"I  bet  ye  he's  a  cowpunch!" 

The  big  man   looked   back   at   them   mockingly 


4  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  and  went  on  without  a 
word. 

It  is  the  boast  of  cowboys  that  they  can  tell 
another  puncher  at  a  glance;  but  they  are  not  alone 
in  this — there  are  other  crafts  that  leave  their  mark 
and  other  men  as  shrewd.  A  group  of  mining  men 
took  one  look  at  the  smaller  man,  noting  the  candle- 
grease  on  his  corduroys  and  the  intelligence  in  his 
eyes;  and  to  them  the  big  man  was  no  more  than  a 
laborer — or  a  shift-boss  at  most — and  the  little  man 
was  one  of  their  kind.  Every  line  in  his  mobile 
face  spoke  of  intellect  and  decision,  and  as  they 
walked  it  was  he  who  did  the  talking,  while  the  big 
man  only  nodded  and  smiled. 

They  took  a  turn  or  two  up  the  street,  now  drifting 
into  some  clamorous  saloon,  now  standing  at  gaze 
on  the  sidewalk;  and  as  the  drinks  began  to  work, 
the  little  man  became  more  and  more  animated, 
the  big  man  more  and  more  amiable  in  his  assent 
and  silence. 

Then  as  they  passed  the  crowd  of  refugees  they 
stopped  and  listened,  commenting  on  the  various 
opinions  by  an  exchange  of  knowing  smiles.  An  old 
prospector,  white-haired  and  tanned  to  a  tropic 
brown,  finally  turned  upon  a  presumptuous  opti 
mist  and  the  little  man  nodded  approvingly  as  he 
heard  him  express  his  views. 

"You  can  say  what  you  please,"  the  prospector 
ended,  "but  I'm  going  to  keep  out  of  that  country. 
I've  knowed  them  Mexicans  for  thirty  years  now 
and  I'm  telling  you  they're  gitting  treacherous. 
It  don't  do  no  good  to  have  your  gun  with  you — 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  5 

they'll  shoot  you  from  behind  a  rock — and  if  they 
can't  git  you  that  way,  they'll  knife  you  in  your  sleep. 

"I've  noticed  a  big  change  in  them  paisanos 
since  this  war  come  on.  Before  Madero  made  his 
break  they  used  to  be  scared  of  Americans — thought 
if  they  killed  one  of  us  the  rest  would  cross  the  bor 
der  and  eat  'em  up.  What  few  times  they  did 
tackle  a  white  man  he  generally  give  a  good  account 
of  himself,  too,  and  I've  traveled  them  trails  for 
years  without  hardly  knowing  what  it  was  to  be 
afraid  of  anybody;  but  I  tell  you  it's  entirely  differ 
ent  over  there  now." 

"Sure!  That's  right!"  spoke  up  the  little  man, 
with  spirit.  "  You're  talking  more  sense  than  any 
man  on  the  street.  I  guess  I  ought  to  know — I've 
been  down  there  and  through  it  all — and  it's  got  so 
now  that  you  can't  trust  any  of  'em.  My  pardner 
and  I  came  clear  from  the  Sierra  Madres,  riding 
nights,  and  we  come  pretty  near  knowing — hey, 
Bud?" 

"That's  right,"  observed  Bud,  the  big  man, 
with  a  reminiscent  grin.  "I  begin  to  think  them 
fellers  would  get  us,  for  a  while!" 

"Mining  men?"  inquired  the  old  prospector 
politely. 

"Working  on  a  lease,"  said  the  little  man  briefly. 
"Owner  got  scared  out  and  let  us  in  on  shares. 
But  no  more  for  muh — this  will  hold  me  for  quite 
a  while,  I  can  tell  you!" 

"Here,  too,"  agreed  the  big  man,  turning  to  go. 
"Arizona  is  good  enough  for  me — come  on,  Phil!" 

"Where  to?"    The  little  man  drew  back  half 


6  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

resentfully,  and  then  he  changed  his  mind.  "All 
right,"  he  said,  falling  into  step,  "a  gin  fizz  for 
mine!" 

"Not  on  an  empty  stomach,"  admonished  his 
pardner;  "you  might  get  lit  up  and  tell  somebody 
all  you  know.  How  about  something  to  eat?" 

"Good!     But  where  're  you  going?" 

The  big  man  was  leading  off  down  a  side  street, 
and  once  more  they  came  to  a  halt. 

"Jim's  place — it's  a  lunch-counter,"  he  explained 
laconically.  "The  hotel's  all  right,  and  mayb* 
that  was  a  breakfast  we  got,  but  I  get  hungry 
waiting  that  way.  Gimme  a  lunch-counter,  where  I 
can  wrop  my  legs  around  a  stool  and  watch  the  cook 
turn  'em  over.  Come  on — I  been  there  before." 

An  expression  of  pitying  tolerance  came  over 
the  little  man's  face  as  he  listened  to  this  rhapsody 
on  the  quick  lunch,  but  he  drew  away  reluctantly. 

"Aw,  come  on,  Bud,"  he  pleaded.  "Have  a 
little  class!  What's  the  use  of  winning  a  stake  if 
you've  got  to  eat  at  a  dog-joint?  And  besides — 
say,  that  was  a  peach  of  a  girl  that  waited  on  us 
this  morning!  Did  you  notice  her  hair?  She  was 
a  pippin!  I  left  four-bits  under  my  plate!" 

The  big  man  waggled  his  hand  resignedly  and 
started  on  his  way. 

"All  right,  pardner,"  he  observed;  "if  that's 
the  deal  she's  probably  looking  for  you.  I'll  meet 
you  in  the  room." 

"Aw,  come  on!"  urged  the  other,  but  his  heart 
was  not  in  it,  and  he  turned  gaily  away  up  the  main 
street. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  7 

Left  to  himself,  the  big  man  went  on  to  his  lunch- 
counter,  where  he  ordered  oysters,  "a  dozen  in  the 
milk."  Then  he  ordered  a  beefsteak,  to  make  up 
for  several  he  had  missed,  and  asked  the  cook  to 
fry  it  rare.  He  was  just  negotiating  for  a  can  of 
pears  that  had  caught  his  eye  when  an  old  man 
came  in  and  took  the  stool  beside  him,  picking  up 
the  menu  with  a  trembling  hand. 

"Give  me  a  cup  of  coffee,"  he  said  to  the  waiter, 
"and" — he  gazed  at  the  bill  of  fare  carefully — 
"and  a  roast-beef  sandwich.  No,  just  the  coffee!" 
he  corrected,  and  at  that  Bud  gave  him  a  look.  He 
was  a  small  man,  shabbily  dressed  and  with  scraggiy 
whiskers,  and  his  nose  was  very  red. 

"Here,"  called  Bud,  coming  to  an  instant  con 
clusion,  "give  'im  his  sandwich;  I'll  pay  for  it!" 

"All  right,"  answered  the  waiter,  who  was  no 
other  than  Sunny  Jim,  the  proprietor,  and,  whisking 
up  a  sandwich  from  the  sideboard,  he  set  it  before 
the  old  man,  who  glanced  at  him  in  silence.  For 
a  fraction  of  a  second  he  regarded  the  sandwich 
apathetically;  then,  with  the  aid  of  his  coffee,  he 
made  way  with  it  and  slipped  down  off  his  stool. 

"Say,"  observed  the  proprietor,  as  Bud  was 
paying  his  bill,  "do  you  know  who  that  oldtimer 
was?" 

"What  oldtimer?"  inquired  Bud,  who  had  for 
gotten  his  brusk  benefaction. 

"Why,  that  old  feller  that  you  treated  to  the  sand 
wich." 

"Oh — him!  Some  old  drunk  around  town?" 
hazarded  Bud. 


8  THE  DESERT  TRAIIl 

"Well,  he's  that,  too,"  conceded  Sunny  Jim,  with 
a  smile.  "But  lemme  tell  you,  pardner,  if  you  had 
half  the  rocks  that  old  boy's  got  you  wouldn't  need 
to  punch  any  more  cows.  That's  Henry  Kruger, 
the  man  that  just  sold  the  Cross-Cut  Mine  for  fifty 
thousand  cash,  and  he's  got  more  besides." 

"Huh!"  grunted  Bud,  "he  sure  don't  look  it! 
Say,  why  didn't  you  put  me  wise?  Now  I've  got 
to  hunt  him  up  and  apologize." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  assured  the  proprietor; 
"he  won't  take  any  offense.  That's  just  like  Old 
Henry — he's  kinder  queer  that  way." 

"Well,  I'll  go  and  see  him,  anyway/'  said  Bud. 
"He  might  think  I  was  butting  in." 

And  then,  going  about  his  duty  with  philosophical 
calm,  he  ambled  off,  stiff-legged,  down  the  street. 


II 


IT  was  not  difficult  to  find  Henry  Kruger  in 
Gadsden.  The  barkeepers,  those  efficient  pur 
veyors  of  information  and  drinks,  knew  him 
as  they  knew  their  thumbs,  and  a  casual  round  of 
the  saloons  soon  located  him  in  the  back  room  of 
the  Waldorf. 

"Say,"  began  Bud,  walking  bluffly  up  to  him, 
"the  proprietor  of  that  restaurant  back  there  tells 
me  I  made  a  mistake  when  I  insisted  on  paying  for 
your  meal.  I  just  wanted  to  let  you  know — 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  young  man,"  returned  Old 
Henry,  looking  up  with  a  humorous  smile;  "we  all 
of  us  make  our  mistakes.  I  knowed  you  didn't 
mean  no  offense  and  so  I  never  took  none.  Fact  is, 
I  liked  you  all  the  better  for  it.  This  country  is 
getting  settled  up  with  a  class  of  people  that  never 
give  a  nickel  to  nobody.  You  paid  for  that  meal  like 
it  was  nothing,  and  never  so  much  as  looked  at  me. 
Sit  down,  sit  down — I  want  to  talk  to  you!" 

They  sat  down  by  the  stove  and  fell  into  a  friendly 
conversation  in  which  nothing  more  was  said  of 
the  late  inadvertence,  but  when  Bud  rose  to  go  the 
old  man  beckoned  him  back. 

"Hold  on,"  he  protested;  "don't  go  off  mad.  I 
want  to  have  a  talk  with  you  on  business.  You 
seem  to  be  a  pretty  good  young  fellow — maybe 

9 


io  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

we  can  make  some  dicker.  What  are  you  looking 
for  in  these  parts?" 

"Well,"  responded  Bud,  "some  kind  of  a  leasing 
proposition,  I  reckon.  Me  and  my  pardner  jest 
come  in  from  Mexico,  over  near  the  Chihuahua  line, 
and  we  don't  hardly  know  what  we  do  want  yet." 

"Yes,  I've  noticed  that  pardner  of  yours," 
remarked  Henry  Kruger  dryly.  "He's  a  great 
talker.  I  was  listening  to  you  boys  out  on  the 
street  there,  having  nothing  else  to  do  much,  and 
being  kinder  on  the  lookout  for  a  man,  anyway, 
and  it  struck  me  I  liked  your  line  of  talk  best." 

"You're  easy  satisfied,  then,"  observed  Bud, 
with  a  grin.  "I  never  said  a  word  hardly." 

"That's  it,"  returned  Kruger  significantly;  "thi§ 
job  I've  got  calls  for  a  man  like  that." 

"Well,  Phil's  all  right,"  spoke  up  Bud,  with 
sudden  warmth.  "We  been  pardners  for  two  years 
now  and  he  never  give  nothing  away  yet!  He  talks, 
but  he  don't  forget  himself.  And  the  way  he  can 
palaver  them  Mexicans  is  a  wonder." 

"Very  likely,  very  likely,"  agreed  Kruger,  and, 
then  he  sat  a  while  in  silence. 

"We  got  a  few  thousand  dollars  with  us,  too," 
volunteered  Bud  at  last.  "I'm  a  good  worker,  if 
that's  what  you  want — and  Phil,  he's  a  mining 
engineer." 

"Um-m,"  grunted  Kruger,  tugging  at  his  beard, 
but  he  did  not  come  out  with  his  proposal. 

"I  tell  you,"  he  said  at  last.  "I'm  not  doing 
much  talking  about  this  proposition  of  mine.  It's 
a  big  thing,  and  somebody  might  beat  me  to  it* 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  u 

You  know  who  I  am,  I  guess.  I've  pulled  off  some 
of  the  biggest  deals  in  this  country  for  a  poor  man, 
and  I  don't  make  many  mistakes — not  about  min 
eral,  anyway.  And  when  I  tell  you  that  this  is 
rich — you're  talking  with  a  man  that  knows." 

He  fixed  his  shrewd,  blue  eyes  on  the  young 
man's  open  countenance  and  waited  for  him  to 
speak. 

"That's  right,"  he  continued,  as  Bud  finally  nod 
ded  non-committally;  "she's  sure  rich.  I've  had  an 
eye  on  this  proposition  for  years — just  waiting  for 
the  right  time  to  come.  And  now  it's  come!  All 
I  need  is  the  man.  It  ain't  a  dangerous  under 
taking — leastrwise  I  don't  think  it  is — but  I  got  to 
have  somebody  I  can  trust.  I'm  willing  to  pay  you 
good  wages,  or  I'll  let  you  in  on  the  deal — but 
you'll  have  to  go  down  into  Mexico." 

"Nothin'  doing!"  responded  Bud  with  instant 
decision.  "If  it's  in  Arizona  I'll  talk  to  you,  but 
no  more  Mexico  for  me.  I've  got  something  pretty 
good  down  there  myself,  as  far  as  that  goes." 

"What's  the  matter?"  inquired  Kruger,  set  back 
by  the  abrupt  refusal.  "Scared?" 

"Yes,  I'm  scared,"  admitted  Bud,  and  he  chal 
lenged  the  old  man  with  his  eyes. 

"Must  have  had  a  little  trouble,  then?" 

"Well,  you  might  call  it  that,"  agreed  Bud. 
"We  been  on  the  dodge  for  a  month.  A  bunch  of 
revoltosos  tried  to  get  our  treasure,  and  when  we 
skipped  out  on  'em  they  tried  to  get  us" 

"Well,"  continued  Kruger,  "this  proposition  of 
mine  is  different.  You  was  over  in  the  Sierra 


12  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

Madres,  where  the  natives  are  bad.  These  Sonora 
Mexicans  ain't  like  them  Chihuahua  fellers — they're 
Americanized.  I'll  tell  you,  if  it  wasn't  that  the 
people  would  know  me  I'd  go  down  after  this  mine 
myself.  The  country's  perfectly  quiet.  There's 
lots  of  Americans  down  there  yet,  and  they  don't 
even  know  there  is  a  revolution.  It  ain't  far  from 
the  railroad,  you  see,  and  that  makes  a  lot  of  dif 
ference." 

He  lowered  his  voice  to  a  confidential  whisper 
as  he  revealed  the  approximate  locality  of  his  bo 
nanza,  but  Bud  remained  unimpressed. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we  was  near  a  railroad — the 
Northwestern — and  seemed  like  them  red-flaggers 
did  nothing  else  but  burn  bridges  and  ditch  supply 
trains.  When  they  finally  whipped  'em  off  the  whole 
bunch  took  to  the  hills.  That's  where  we  got  it 
again." 

"Well,"  argued  Kruger,  "this  railroad  of  ours  is 
all  right,  and  they  run  a  train  over  it  every  day. 
The  concentrator  at  Fortuna" — he  lowered  his  voice 
again — "hasn't  been  shut  down  a  day,  and  you'll 
be  within  fifteen  miles  of  that  town.  No,"  he 
whispered;  "I  could  get  a  hundred  Americans  to 
go  in  on  this  to-morrow,  as  far's  the  revolution's 
concerned.  It  ain't  dangerous,  but  I  want  some 
body  I  can  trust." 

"Nope,"  pronounced  Bud,  rising  ponderously  to 
his  feet;  "if  it  was  this  side  the  line  I'd  stay  with 
you  till  the  hair  slipped,  on  anything,  but — " 

"Well,  let's  talk  it  over  again  some  time,"  urged 
Kruger,  following  him  along  out.  "It  ain't  often 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  13 

I  git  took  with  a  young  feller  the  way  I  was  with 
you,  and  I  believe  we  can  make  it  yet.  Where  are 
you  staying  in  town?" 

"Up  at  the  Cochise,"  said  Bud.  "Come  on  with 
me — I  told  my  pardner  I'd  meet  him  there." 

They  turned  up  the  broad  main  street  and  passed 
in  through  the  polished  stone  portals  of  the  Cochise, 
a  hotel  so  spacious  in  its  interior  and  so  richly 
appointed  in  its  furnishings  that  a  New  Yorker, 
waking  up  there,  might  easily  imagine  himself  on 
Fifth  Avenue. 

It  was  hardly  a  place  to  be  looked  for  in  the  West, 
and  as  Bud  led  the  way  across  the  echoing  lobby  to 
a  pair  of  stuffed  chairs  he  had  a  vague  feeling  of 
being  in  church.  Stained-glass  windows  above  the 
winding  stairways  let  in  a  soft  light,  and  on  the 
towering  pillars  of  marble  were  emblazoned  prickly- 
pears  as  an  emblem  of  the  West.  From  the  dark 
ened  balconies  above  half-seen  women  looked 
down  curiously  as  they  entered,  and  in  the  broad 
lobby  below  were  gathered  the  prosperous  citizens 
of  the  land. 

There  were  cattlemen,  still  wearing  their  boots 
and  overalls,  the  better  to  attend  to  their  shipping; 
mining  men,  just  as  they  had  come  from  the  hills; 
and  others  more  elegantly  dressed — but  they  all 
had  a  nod  for  Henry  Kruger.  He  was  a  man  of 
mark,  as  Bud  could  see  in  a  minute;  but  if  he  had 
other  business  with  those  who  hailed  him  he  let  it 
pass  and  took  out  a  rank  brier  pipe,  which  he  puffed 
while  Bud  smoked  a  cigarette. 

They  were  sitting  together  in  a  friendly  silence 


14  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

when  Phil  came  out  of  the  dining-room,  but  as  he 
drew  near  the  old  man  nodded  to  Bud  and  went 
over  to  speak  to  the  clerk. 

"Who  was  that  old  timer  you  were  talking  to?" 
inquired  Phil,  as  he  sank  down  in  the  vacant  chair. 
"Looks  like  the-morning-after  with  him,  don't  it?" 

"Um,"  grunted  Bud;  "reckon  it  is.  Name's 
Kruger." 

"What — the  mining  man?" 

"That's  right." 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Phil,  "what  in  the  world 
was  he  talking  to  you  about?" 

"Oh,  some  kind  of  a  mining  deal,"  grumbled  Bud. 
"Wanted  me  to  go  down  into  Mexico!" 

"What'd  you  tell  him?"  challenged  the  little 
man,  sitting  up  suddenly  in  his  chair.  "Say,  that 
old  boy's  got  rocks!" 

"He  can  keep  'em  for  all  of  me,"  observed  Bud 
comfortably.  "You  know  what  I  think  about 
Mexico." 

"Sure;  but  what  was  his  proposition?  What  did 
he  want  you  to  do?" 

"Search  me!  He  was  mighty  mysterious  about 
it.  Said  he  wanted  a  man  he  could  trust." 

"Well,  holy  Moses,  Bud!"  cried  Phil,  "wake  up! 
Didn't  you  get  his  proposition?" 

"No,  he  wasn't  talking  about  it.  Said  it  was  a 
good  thing  and  he'd  pay  me  well,  or  let  me  in  on 
the  deal;  but  when  he  hollered  Mexico  I  quit.  I've 
got  a  plenty." 

"Yes,  but — "  the  little  man  choked  and  could 
aay  no  more.  "Well,  you're  one  jim  dandy  business 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  15 

man,  Bud  Hooker!"  he  burst  out  at  last.     "You'd 
let—" 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?"  demanded  Hooker 
defiantly.  "Do  you  want  to  go  back  into  Mexico? 
Nor  me,  neither!  What  you  kicking  about?" 

"You  might  have  led  him  on  and  got  the  scheme, 
anyway.  Maybe  there's  a  million  in  it.  Come  on, 
let's  go  over  and  talk  to  him.  I'd  take  a  chance, 
if  it  was  good  enough." 

"Aw,  don't  be  a  fool,  Phil,"  urged  the  cowboy 
plaintively.  "We've  got  no  call  to  hear  his  scheme 
unless  we  want  to  go  in  on  it.  Leave  him  alone  and 
he'll  do  something  for  us  on  this  side.  Oh,  cripes! 
what's  the  matter  with  you?" 

He  heaved  himself  reluctantly  up  out  of  his  chair 
and  moved  over  to  where  Kruger  was  sitting. 

"Mr.  Kruger,"  he  said,  as  the  old  man  turned 
to  meet  him,  "I'll  make  you  acquainted  with 
Mr.  De  Lancey,  my  pardner.  My  name's  Hooker." 

"Glad  to  know  you,  Hooker,"  responded  Kruger, 
shaking  him  by  the  hand.  "How'do,  Mr.  De 
Lancey." 

He  gave  Phil  a  rather  crusty  nod  as  he  spoke,  but 
De  Lancey  was  dragging  up  another  chair  and  failed 
to  notice. 

"Mr.  Hooker  was  telling  me  about  some  proposi 
tion  you  had,  to  go  down  into  Mexico,"  he  began, 
drawing  up  closer  while  the  old  man  watched  him  from 
under  his  eyebrows.  "That's  one  tough  country  to 
do  business  in  right  now,  but  at  the  same  time — " 

"The  country's  perfectly  quiet,"  put  in  Kruger — 
"perfectly  quiet." 


16  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Well,  maybe  so,"  qualified  De  Lancey;  "but 
when  it  comes  to  getting  in  supplies— 

"Not  a  bit  of  trouble  in  the  world,"  said  the  old 
man  crabbedly.  "Not  a  bit." 

"Well,"  came  back  De  Lancey,  "what's  the  mat 
ter,  then?  What  is  the  proposition,  anyway?" 

Henry  Kruger  blinked  and  eyed  him  intently. 

"I've  stated  the  proposition  to  Hooker,"  he  said, 
"and  he  refused  it.  That's  enough,  ain't  it?" 

De  Lancey  laughed  and  turned  away. 

"Well,  yes,  I  guess  it  is."  Then,  in  passing,  he 
said  to  Bud:  "Go  ahead  and  talk  to  him." 

He  walked  away,  lighting  a  cigarette  and  smiling 
good-naturedly,  and  the  oldtimer  turned  to  Bud. 

"That's  a  smart  man  you've  got  for  a  pardner," 
he  remarked.  "A  smart  man.  You  want  to  look 
out,"  he  added,  "or  he'll  get  away  with  you." 

"Nope,"  said  Bud.  "You  don't  know  him  like 
I  do.  He's  straight  as  a  die." 

"A  man  can  be  straight  and  still  get  away  with 
you,"  observed  the  veteran  shrewdly.  "Yes,  in 
deed."  He  paused  to  let  this  bit  of  wisdom  sink 
in,  and  then  he  spoke  again. 

"You  better  quit — while  you're  lucky,"  he  sug 
gested.  "You  quit  and  come  with  me,"  he  urged, 
"and  if  we  strike  it,  I'll  make  you  a  rich  man.  I 
don't  need  your  pardner  on  this  deal.  I  need  just 
one  man  that  can  keep  his  head  shut.  Listen  now; 
I'll  tell  you  what  it  is. 

"I  know  where  there's  a  lost  mine  down  in  Mexico. 
If  I'd  tell  you  the  name  you'd  know  it  in  a  minute, 
and  it's  free  gold,  too.  Now  there's  a  fellow  that 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  17 

had  that  land  located  for  ten  years,  but  he  couldn't 
find  the  lead.  D'ye  see?  And  when  this  second 
revolution  came  on  he  let  it  go — he  neglected  to  pay 
his  mining  taxes  and  let  it  go  back  to  the  govern 
ment.  And  now  all  I  want  is  a  quiet  man  to  slip 
in  and  denounce  that  land  and  open  up  the  lead. 
Here,  look  at  this!" 

He  went  down  into  his  pocket  and  brought  out 
a  buckskin  sack,  from  which  he  handed  over  a 
piece  of  well-worn  quartz. 

"That's  the  rock,"  he  said.  "She  runs  four 
hundred  dollars  to  the  ton,  and  the  ledge  is  eight 
inches  wide  between  the  walls.  Nice  ore,  eh  ?  And 
she  lays  between  shale  and  porphyry." 

His  eyes  sparkled  as  he  carefully  replaced  the 
specimen,  and  then  he  looked  up  at  Bud. 

"I'll  let  you  in  on  that,"  he  said,  "half  and  half— 
or  I'll  pay  two  hundred  dollars  a  month  and  a  bonus. 
You  alone.  Now  how  about  it?" 

For  a  moment  Hooker  looked  at  him  as  if  to  read 
his  thoughts,  then  he  shook  his  head  and  exhaled 
his  smoke  regretfully. 

"Nope,"  he  said.  "Me  and  Phil  are  pardners. 
We  work  together." 

"I'll  give  you  three  hundred!"  cried  Kruger,  half 
rising  in  his  chair. 

"Nope,"  grunted  Bud,  "we're  pardners." 

"Huh!"  snorted  the  mining  man,  and  flung 
away  in  disgust.  But  as  he  neared  the  door  a 
new  thought  struck  him  and  he  came  as  quickly 
back. 

"You  can  do  what  you  please  about  your  pard- 


i8  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

ner,"  he  said.  "I'm  talking  to  you.  Now — will 
you  think  about  it?" 

"Sure!"  returned  Hooker. 

"Well,  then,"  snapped  Kruger,  "meet  me  at  the 
Waldorf  in  an  hour!" 


Ill 


ON    the    untrammeled    frontier,   where    most 
men  are  willing  to  pass  for  what  they  are 
without  keeping  up  any  "front,"  much  of 
the  private  business,  as  well  as  the  general  devil 
ment,  is  transacted  in  the  back  rooms  of  saloons. 
The  Waldorf  was  nicely  furnished  in  this  regard. 

After  a  drink  at  the  bar,  in  which  De  Lancey 
and  Hooker  joined,  Henry  Kruger  led  the  way 
casually  to  the  rear,  and  in  a  few  moments  they  were 
safely  closeted. 

"Now,"  began  Kruger,  as  he  took  a  seat  by  the 
table  and  faced  them  with  snapping  eyes,  "the 
first  thing  I  want  to  make  plain  to  you  gentlemen  is, 
if  I  make  any  deal  to-day  it's  to  be  with  Mr.  Hooker. 
If  you  boys  are  pardners  you  can  talk  it  over  to 
gether,  but  I  deal  with  one  man,  and  that's  Hooker. 

"All  right?"  he  inquired,  glancing  at  De  Lancey, 
and  that  young  man  nodded  indulgently. 

"Very  well,  then,"  resumed  Kruger,  "now  to 
get  down  to  business.  This  mine  that  I'm  talking 
about  is  located  down  here  in  Sonora  within  three 
hours'  ride  of  a  big  American  camp.  It  isn't  any 
old  Spanish  mine,  or  lost  padre  layout;  it's  a  well- 
defined  ledge  running  three  or  four  hundred  dollars 
to  the  ton — and  I  know  right  where  it  is,  too. 

"What  I  want  to  do  is  to  establish  the  title  to  it 

19 


20          ^      THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

now,  while  this  revolution  is  going  on,  and  make  a 
bonanza  out  of  it  afterward.  Of  course,  if  you 
boys  don't  want  to  go  back  into  Mexico,  that  settles 
it;  but  if  you  do  go,  and  I  let  you  in  on  the  deal. 
youVe  got  to  see  it  through  or  I'll  lose  the  whole 
thing.  So  make  up  your  minds,  and  if  you  say  you'll 
go,  I  want  you  to  stick  to  it!" 

"We'll  go,  all  right,"  spoke  up  De  Lancey,  "if  it's 
rich  enough." 

"How  about  you?''  inquired  Kruger,  turning 
impatiently  on  Bud.  "Will  you  go?" 

"Yes,  I'll  go,"  answered  Bud  sullenly.  "But 
I  ain't  stuck  on  the  job,"  he  added.  "Jest  about 
get  it  opened  up  when  a  bunch  of  rebels  will  jump|in 
and  take  everything  we've  got." 

"Well,  you  get  a  title  to  it  and  pay  your  taxes  and 
you  can  come  out  then,"  conceded  Henry  Kruger. 

"No,"  grumbled  Hooker,  "if  I  go  I'll  stay  with 
it."  He  glanced  at  his  pardner  at  this,  but  he,  for 
one,  did  not  seem  to  be  worried. 

"I'll  try  anything — once!"  he  observed  with  a 
sprightly  air,  and  Bud  grinned  sardonically  at  the 
well-worn  phrase. 

"Well,"  said  Kruger,  gazing  inquiringly  from  one 
to  the  other,  "is  it  a  go?  Will  you  shake  hands  on 
it?" 

"What's  the  proposition?"  broke  in  De  Lancey 
eagerly. 

"The  deal  is  between  me  and  Hooker,"  corrected 
Kruger.  "I'll  give  him  three  hundred  a  month,  or 
an  equal  share  in  the  mine,  expenses  to  be  shared 
between  us." 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  21 

"Make  it  equal  shares,"  said  Hooker,  holding  out 
his  hand,  "and  I'll  give  half  of  mine  to  Phil." 

"All  right,  my  boy!"  cried  the  old  man,  suddenly 
clapping  him  on  the  shoulder,  "I'll  go  you — and 
you'll  never  regret  it,"  he  added  significantly. 
Then,  throwing  off  the  air  of  guarded  secrecy  which 
had  characterized  his  actions  so  far,  he  sat  down  and 
began  to  talk. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "I'm  feeling  lucky  to-day  or 
I'd  never  have  closed  this  deal.  I'm  letting  you 
in  on  one  of  the  biggest  things  that's  ever  been  found 
in  Sonora.  Just  to  show  you  how  good  it  is,  here's 
my  smelter  receipts  for  eight  hundred  pounds  of 
picked  ore — one  thousand  and  twenty-two  dollars! 
That's  the  first  and  last  ore  that's  ever  been  shipped 
from  the  old  Eagle  Tail.  I  dug  it  out  myself,  and 
sacked  it  and  shipped  it;  and  then  some  of  them 
crooked  Mexican  officials  tried  to  beat  me  out  of 
my  title  and  I  blowed  up  the  whole  works  with 
dynamite! 

"Yes,  sir,  clean  as  a  whistle!  I  had  my  powder 
stored  away  in  the  drift,  and  the  minute  I  found  out 
I  was  euchred  I  laid  a  fuse  to  it  and  brought  the  whole 
mountain  down.  That  was  ten  years  ago,  and  old 
Aragon  and  the  agente  mineral  have  had  the  land 
located  ever  since. 

"I  bet  they've  spent  five  thousand  pesos  trying 
to  find  that  lead,  but  being  nothing  but  a  bunch  of 
ignorant  Mexicans,  of  course  they  never  found  noth 
ing.  Then  Francisco  Madero  comes  in  and  fires  the 
agente  mineral  off  his  job  and  old  Aragon  lets  the 
land  revert  for  taxes.  I've  got  a  Mexican  that 


22  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

keeps  me  posted,  and  ever  since  he  sent  me  word 
that  the  title  had  lapsed  I've  been  crazy  to  relocatt 
that  claim. 

"Well,  now,  that  don't  look  so  bad,  does  it?" 
he  asked,  beaming  paternally  at  Bud.  "There 
ain't  a  man  in  town  that  wouldn't  have  jumped  at 
the  chance,  if  I  was  where  I  could  talk  about  it, 
but  that's  just  what  I  couldn't  do.  I  had  to  find 
some  stranger  that  wouldn't  sense  what  mine  I 
was  talking  about  and  then  git  him  to  go  in  on  it 
blind. 

"Now  here's  the  way  I'm  fixed,  boys,"  he  ex 
plained,  brushing  out  his  unkempt  beard  and  smil 
ing  craftily.  "When  I  dynamited  the  Eagle  Tail 
it  was  mine  by  rights,  but  Cipriano  Aragon — he's 
the  big  Mexican  down  at  old  Fortuna — and  Morales, 
the  mineral  agent,  had  buncoed  me  out  of  the  title. 

"So,  according  to  law,  I  blowed  up  their  mine, 
and  if  I  ever  showed  up  down  there  I  reckon  they'd 
throw  me  into  jail.  And  if  at  any  time  they  find 
out  that  you're  working  for  me,  why,  we're  ditched 
— that's  all!  They'll  put  you  out  of  business.  So, 
after  we've  made  our  agreement  and  I've  told  you 
what  to  do,  I  don't  want  to  hear  a  word  out  of  you — 
I  don't  want  you  to  come  near  me,  nor  even  write  me 
a  letter — just  go  ahead  the  best  you  can  until  you 
win  out  or  go  broke. 

"It  ain't  a  hard  proposition,"  he  continued, 
"if  you  keep  your  mouth  shut,  but  if  they  tumble, 
it'll  be  a  fight  to  a  finish.  I'm  not  saying  this  for 
you,  Hooker,  because  I  know  you're  safe;  I'm  say 
ing  it  for  your  pardner  here.  You  talk  too  much, 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  23 

Mr.  De  Lancey,"  he  chided,  eying  him  with  sudden 
severity.     "I'm  afraid  of  ye!" 

"All  right,"  broke  in  Hooker  good-naturedly, 
"I  reckon  we  understand.  Now  go  ahead  and  tell 
us  where  this  mine  is  and  who  there  is  down  there 
to  look  out  for." 

"The  man  to  look  out  for,"  answered  Kruger  with 
venom,  "is  Cipriano  Aragon.  He's  the  man  that 
bilked  me  out  of  the  mine  once,  and  he'll  do  it  again 
if  he  can.  When  I  went  down  there — it  was  ten 
years  and  more  ago — I  wasn't  onto  those  Spanish 
ways  of  his,  and  he  was  so  dog-goned  polite  and 
friendly  I  thought  I  could  trust  him  anywhere. 

"He  owns  a  big  ranch  and  mescal  still,  runs  cattle, 
works  a  few  placers,  sends  out  pack-trains,  and  has 
every  Mexican  and  Indian  in  the  country  in  debt  to 
him  through  his  store,  so  if  he  happens  to  want  any 
rough  work  done  there's  always  somebody  to  do  it. 

"Well,  just  to  show  you  how  he  did  me,  I  got  to 
nosing  round  those  old  Spanish  workings  east  of 
Fortuna  and  finally  I  run  across  the  ledge  that  I'm 
telling  you  about,  not  far  from  an  abandoned  shaft. 
But  the  Mexican  mining  laws  are  different  from  ours, 
and  an  American  has  lots  of  trouble  anyway,  so  I 
made  a  trade  with  old  Aragon  that  he  should  locate 
the  claim  for  me  under  a  power  of  attorney.  Didn't 
know  him  then  like  I  do  now.  The  papers  had  to  be 
sent  to  Moctesuma  and  Hermosillo,  and  to  the  City 
of  Mexico  and  back,  and  while  I  was  waiting  around 
I  dug  in  on  this  lead  and  opened  up  the  prettiest 
vein  of  quartz  you  ever  .saw  in  your  life.  Here's 
a  sample  of  it,  and  it's  sure  rich." 


24  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

He  handed  De  Lancey  the  familiar  piece  of  quartz 
and  proceeded  with  his  story. 

"That  ore  looked  so  good  to  me  that  I  couldn't 
wait — I  shipped  it  before  I  got  my  title.  And 
right  there  I  made  my  mistake.  When  Aragon  saw 
the  gold  in  that  rock  he  just  quietly  recorded  the 
concession  in  his  own  name  and  told  me  to  go  to 
blazes.  That's  the  greaser  of  it!  So  I  blew  the 
whole  mine  up  and  hit  for  the  border.  That's  the 
Dutch  of  it,  I  reckon,"  he  added  grimly.  "Anyway, 
my  old  man  was  Dutch." 

He  paused,  smiling  over  the  memory  of  his  mis 
placed  credulity,  and  Hooker  and  De  Lancey  joined 
in  a  hearty  laugh.  From  the  town  bum  that  he  had 
first  seemed  this  shabbly  little  man  had  changed  in 
their  eyes  until  now  he  was  a  border  Croesus,  the 
mere  recital  of  whose  adventures  conjured  up  in 
their  minds  visions  of  gold  and  hidden  treasure. 

The  rugged  face  of  Bud  Hooker,  which  had  been 
set  in  grim  lines  from  the  first,  relaxed  as  the  tale 
proceeded  and  his  honest  eyes  glowed  with  admira 
tion  as  he  heard  the  well-planned  scheme.  As  for 
De  Lancey,  he  could  hardly  restrain  his  enthusiasm, 
and,  drawn  on  by  the  contagion,  Henry  Kruger 
made  maps  and  answered  questions  until  every  detail 
was  settled. 

After  the  location  had  been  marked,  and  the 
lost  tunnel  charted  from  the  corner  monuments,  he 
bade  them  remember  it  well — and  destroyed  every 
vestige  of  paper.  Then,  as  a  final  admonition,  he 
said: 

"Now  go  in   there  quietly,   boys — don't  hurry. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  25 

Prospect  around  a  little  and  the  Mexicans  will  all 
come  to  you  and  try  to  sell  you  lost  mines.  Cruz 
Mendez  is  the  man  you're  looking  for — he's  honest, 
and  he'll  take  you  to  the  Eagle  Tail.  After  that 
you  can  use  your  own  judgment.  So  good-bye" — 
he  took  them  by  the  hands — "and  don't  talk!" 

He  held  up  a  warning  finger  as  they  parted,  and 
Bud  nodded  briefly  in  reply.  Silence  was  a  habit 
with  him,  desert-bred,  and  he  nodded  his  head  for 
two. 


IV 

FROM    the    times    of    David    and    Jonathan 
down  to  the  present  day  the  world  has  been 
full  of  young  men  sworn  to  friendship  and 
seeking    adventure    in    pairs.     "Pardners,"    they 
call  them  in  the  West,  and  though  the  word  has  not 
crept  into  the  dictionary  yet,  it  is  as  different  from 
"partner"  as  a  friend  is  from  a  business  associate. 

They  travel  together,  these  pardners  of  the  West, 
and  whether  they  be  cowboys  or  "Cousin  Jacks," 
the  boss  who  fires  one  of  them  fires  both  of  them, 
and  they  go  share  and  share  in  everything. 

Bud  Hooker  and  Philip  De  Lancey  had  met  by 
chance  in  El  Paso  when  the  revolution  was  just 
beginning  to  boil  and  the  city  was  swarming  with 
adventurers.  The  agents  of  the  rebels  were  every 
where,  urging  Americans  to  join  their  cause.  Mili 
tary  preferment,  cash  payments,  and  grants  of 
land  were  the  baits  they  used,  but  Hooker  stood  out 
from  the  first  and  took  De  Lancey  with  him.  A 
Mexican  promise  did  not  pass  current  where  he  was 
born  and  they  went  to  the  mines  instead. 

Then  the  war  broke  out  and,  while  fugitives 
streamed  out  of  stricken  Chihuahua,  they  finally 
struck  out  against  the  tide,  fighting  their  way  to  a 
certain  mine  far  back  in  the  Sierra  Madres,  where 
they  could  dig  the  gold  on  shares. 

26 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  27 

Behind  them  the  battle  waged;  Casas  Grandes 
was  taken  and  retaken;  Juarez,  Agua  Negra,  and 
Chihuahua  fell;  Don  Porfirio,  the  Old  Man  of 
Mexico,  went  out  and  Madero  took  his  place;  and 
still  they  worked  for  their  stake. 

Then  new  arms  and  ammunition  flowed  in  from 
across  the  border;  Orozco  and  his  rebel  chiefs  went 
out,  and  the  breath  of  war  fanned  higher  against 
the  hills.  At  last  the  first  broken  band  of  rebels 
came  straggling  by,  and,  reading  hate  and  envy 
in  their  lawless  eyes,  the  Americans  dug  up  their  gold 
at  sundown  and  rode  all  the  night  for  their  lives. 

And  now,  welded  together  by  all  that  toil  and 
danger,  they  were  pardners,  cherishing  no  delusions 
as  to  each  other's  strength  or  weaknesses,  but 
joined  together  for  better  or  worse. 

It  was  the  last  thing  that  either  of  them  expected, 
but  three  days  after  they  fled  out  of  Mexico,  and  with 
all  their  money  unspent,  the  hand  of  fate  seized 
upon  them  and  sent  them  back  on  another  adventure. 

It  was  early  morning  again,  with  crowds  along 
the  street,  and  as  they  ambled  slowly  along  toward 
the  line,  the  men  on  the  corners  stared  at  them. 
The  bunch  of  cowboys  gazed  at  Bud,  who  sported 
a  new  pair  of  high-heeled  boots,  and  knew  him  by 
the  way  he  rode;  and  the  mining  men  looked 
searchingly  at  De  Lancey,  as  if  to  guess  the  secret  of 
his  quest. 

A  squad  of  mounted  troopers,  riding  out  on 
border  patrol,  gazed  after  them  questioningly,  but 
Bud  and  Phil  rode  on  soberly,  leading  their  pack, 
and  headed  for  Agua  Negra  across  the  line. 


28  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

It  was  a  grim  place  to  look  at,  this  border  town  of 
Agua  Negra,  for  the  war  had  swept  it  twice.  A 
broad  waste  of  level  land  lay  between  it  and  the 
prosperous  American  city,  and  across  this  swath, 
where  the  Mausers  and  machine  guns  had  twice 
mowed,  lay  the  huddle  of  low  houses  which  marked 
the  domain  of  Mexico. 

Fussy  little  customs  officials,  lurking  like  spiders 
in  their  cooped-up  guard-houses,  rushed  out  as  they 
crossed  the  deep  trench  and  demanded  their  permit 
to  bear  arms.  The  moment  they  crossed  the  line 
the  air  seemed  to  be  pervaded  with  Latin  excita 
bility  and  Indian  jealousy,  but  De  Lancey  replied 
in  florid  Spanish,  and  before  his  polite  assurances 
and  fulsome  compliments  it  was  dissipated  in  a 
moment. 

"Good!  Pass  on,  amigos,"  cried  the  beady-eyed 
little  jefe,  pasting  a  label  on  their  pack.  " Adios, 
senor"  he  added,  returning  Phil's  salute  with  a 
military  flourish,  and  with  a  scornful  glance  at  Bud 
he  observed  that  the  gentleman  was  muy  caballero. 

"Huh!"  remarked  Bud,  as  they  rode  on  through 
the  town,  "we're  in  Mexico  all  right,  all  right.  Talk 
with  both  hands  and  get  busy  with  your  eyebrows — 
and  holy  Joe,  look  at  them  pelones!" 

The  pelones  referred  to  were  a  squad  of  Mexican 
Federal  soldiers,  so-called  from  their  heads  being 
shaved,  and  they  were  marching  doggedly  to  and 
fro  through  the  thorny  mesquit-bushes  in  response 
to  shouted  orders  from  an  officer.  Being  from 
Zacatecas,  where  the  breed  is  short,  they  stood  about 
as  high  as  their  guns;  and  their  crumpled  linen 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  29 

suits  and  flapping  sandals  detracted  sadly  from  the 
soldierly  effect. 

Big  and  hulking,  and  swelling  with  the  pride  of 
his  kind,  Hooker  looked  them  over  slowly,  and 
spoke  his  hidden  thought 

"I  wonder/'  he  said,  turning  to  Phil,  "how 
many  of  them  I  could  lick  with  one  hand  ? " 

"Well,  they're  nothing  but  a  lot  of  petty  con 
victs,  anyway,"  answered  De  Lancey,  "but  here's 
some  boys  ahead  that  I'll  bet  could  hold  you,  man 
for  man,  husky  as  you  are,  old  fellow." 

They  were  riding  past  a  store,  now  serving  as  an 
improvised  barracks,  and  romping  about  in  the  street 
were  a  pair  of  tall  Yaqui  Indians,  each  decorated 
with  a  cartridge-belt  about  his  hips  in  token  of  his 
military  service.  Laughing  and  grabbing  for  holds, 
they  frolicked  like  a  couple  of  boys  until  finally 
they  closed  in  a  grapple  that  revealed  a  sudden  and 
pantherlike  strength. 

And  a  group  of  others,  sunning  themselves  against 
the  wall,  looked  up  at  the  Americans  with  eyes  as 
fearless  as  mountain  eagles. 

"Yes,  that's  right,"  admitted  Bud,  returning 
their  friendly  greeting,  "but  we'll  never  have  no 
trouble  with  them." 

"Well,  these  Nacionales  are  not  so  bad,"  defended 
Phil,  as  they  passed  the  State  soldiers  of  Sonora  on  the 
street,  "but  they're  just  as  friendly  as  the  Yaquis." 

"Sure,"  jeered  Bud,  "when  they're  sober!  But 
you  get  a  bunch  of  'em  drunk  and  ask  'em  what  they 
think  of  the  Gringos !  No,  you  got  to  show  me — I've 
seen  too  much  of  'em." 


So  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"You  haven't  seen  as  much  of  'em  as  7  have,  yet/' 
retorted  De  Lancey,  quickly.  "I've  been  all  over 
the  republic,  except  right  here  in  Sonora,  and  I 
swear  these  Sonorans  here  look  good  to  me.  There's 
no  use  holding  a  grouch  against  them,  Bud — they 
haven't  done  us  any  dirt." 

"No,  they  never  had  no  chance,"  grumbled  Bud, 
gazing  grimly  to  the  south.  "But  wait  till  the  hot 
weather  comes  and  the  revoltosos  come  out  of  their 
holes;  wait  till  them  Chihuahua  greasers  thaw  out 
up  in  the  Sierras  and  come  down  to  get  some  fresh 
mounts.  Well,  I'll  tell  'em  one  thing,"  he  ended, 
reaching  down  to  pat  his  horse,  "they'll  never  get 
old  Copper  Bottom  here — not  unless  they  steal  him 
at  night.  It's  all  right  to  be  cheerful  about  this, 
Phil,  and  you  keep  right  on  being  glad,  but  I  got 
a  low-down  hunch  that  we're  going  to  get  in  bad." 

"Well,  I've  got  just  as  good  a  hunch,"  came  back 
De  Lancey,  "that  we're  going  to  make  a  killing." 

"Yes,  and  speaking  of  killings,"  said  Bud,  "you 
don't  want  to  overlook  that." 

He  pointed  at  a  group  of  dismantled  adobe 
buildings  standing  out  on  the  edge  of  the  town  and 
flanked  by  a  segment  of  whitewashed  wall  all 
spattered  and  breached  with  bullet-holes. 

"There's  where  these  prize  Mexicans  of  yourn 
pulled  off  the  biggest  killing  in  Sonora.  I  was  over 
here  yesterday  with  that  old  prospector  and  he 
told  me  that  that  wall  is  the  bull-ring.  After  the 
first  big  fight  they  gathered  up  three  hundred  and 
fifty  men,  more  or  less,  and  throwed  'em  in  a  trench 
along  by  the  wall — then  they  blowed  it  over  on  'em 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  31 

with  a  few  sticks  of  dynamite  and  let  'em  pass  for 
buried.  No  crosses  or  nothing.  Excuse  me,  if 
they  ever  break  loose  like  that — we  might  get 
planted  with  the  rest!" 

"By  Jove,  old  top!"  exclaimed  De  Lancey, 
laughing  teasingly,  "you've  certainly  got  the  blues 
to-day.  Here,  take  something  out  of  this  bottle 
and  see  if  it  won't  help." 

He  brought  out  a  quart  bottle  from  his  saddle 
bags  and  Bud  drank,  and  shuddered  at  the  bite  of  it. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  as  he  passed  it  back,  "and 
while  we're  talking,  what's  the  matter  with  cutting 
it  out  on  booze  for  this  trip?" 

"What  are  we  going  to  drink,  then?"  cried  De 
Lancey  in  feigned  alarm.  "Water?" 

"Well,  something  like  that,"  admitted  Bud. 
"Come  on — what  do  you  say?  We  might  get  lit 
up  and  tell  something." 

"Now  lookee  here,  Bud,"  clamored  Phil,  who  had 
had  a  few  drinks  already,  "you  don't  mean  to 
insinuate,  do  you?  Next  thing  I  know  you'll  be 
asking  me  to  cut  it  out  on  the  hay — might  talk  in 
my  sleep,  you  know,  and  give  the  whole  snap  away!" 

"No,  you're  a  good  boy  when  you're  asleep, 
Phil,"  responded  Bud,  "but  when  you  get  about 
half  shot  it's  different.  Come  on,  now — I'll  quit 
if  you  will.  That's  fair,  ain't  it?" 

"What?  No  little  toots  around  town?  No 
serenading  the  senoritas  and  giving  the  rurales  the 
hotfoot?  Well,  what's  the  use  of  living,  Bud,  if 
you  can't  have  a  little  fun?  Drinking  don't  make 
any  difference,  as  long  as  we  stick  together.  What'i 


32  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

the  use  of  swearing  off — going  on  record  in  advance  ? 
We  may  find  some  fellow  that  we  can't  work  any 
other  way — we  may  have  to  go  on  a  drunk  with  him 
in  order  to  get  his  goat.  But  will  you  stick  ?  That's 
the  point!" 

Bud  glanced  at  him  and  grunted,  and  for  a  long 
time  he  rode  on  in  silence.  Before  them  lay  a  roll 
ing  plain,  dipping  by  broad  gulches  and  dwindling 
ridges  to  the  lower  levels  of  Old  Mexico,  and  on  the 
skyline,  thin  and  blue,  stood  the  knifelike  edges  of 
the  Fortunas  miles  away. 

With  desert-trained  eyes  he  noted  the  landmarks, 
San  Juan  mountain  to  the  right,  Old  Niggerhead 
to  the  left,  and  the  feather-edge  of  mountains  far 
below;  and  as  he  looked  he  stored  it  away  in  his 
mind  in  case  he  should  come  back  on  the  run  some 
night. 

It  was  not  a  foreboding,  but  the  training  of  his 
kind,  to  note  the  lay  of  the  ground,  and  he  planned 
just  where  he  would  ride  to  keep  under  cover  if  he 
ever  made  a  dash  for  the  line.  But  all  the  time  his 
pardner  was  talking  of  friendship  and  of  the  necessity 
of  their  sticking  together. 

"I'll  tell  you,  Bud,"  he  said  at  last,  his  voice 
trembling  with  sentiment,  "whether  we  win  or  lose, 
I  won't  have  a  single  regret  as  long  as  I  know  we've 
been  true  to  one  another.  You  may  know  Texas 
and  Arizona,  Bud,  but  I  know  Old  Mexico,  the 
land  of  manana  and  broken  promises.  I  know  the 
country,  Bud — and  the  climate — and  the  women! 

"They  play  the  devil  with  the  best  of  us,  Bud, 
these  dark-eyed  senoritas!  That's  what  makes  all 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  33 

the  trouble  down  here  between  man  and  man,  it's 
these  women  and  their  ways.  They're  not  satis 
fied  to  win  a  man's  heart — they  want  him  to  kill 
somebody  to  show  that  he  really  loves  them.  By 
Jove!  they're  a  fickle  lot,  and  nothing  pleases  'em 
more  than  setting  man  against  man,  one  pardner 
against  another." 

"We  never  had  no  trouble  yet,"  observed  Bud 
sententiously. 

"No,  but  we're  likely  to,"  protested  De  Lancey. 
"Those  Indian  women  up  in  the  Sierras  wouldn't 
turn  anybody's  head,  but  we're  going  down  into  the 
hot  country  now,  where  the  girls  are  pretty,  ta-ra, 
ta-ra,  and  we  talk  through  the  windows  at  mid 
night." 

"Well,  if  you'll  cut  out  the  booze,"  said  Hooker 
shortly,  "you  can  have  'em  all,  for  all  of  me." 

"Sure,  that's  what  you  say,  but  wait  till  you 
see  them!  Oh,  la,  la,  la!" — he  kissed  his  fingers 
ecstatically — "I'll  be  glad  to  see  'em  myself!  But 
listen,  Bud,  here's  the  proposition:  Let's  take  an  oath 
right  now,  while  we're  starting  out,  that  whatever 
comes  up  we'll  always  be  true  to  each  other.  If  one 
of  us  is  wounded,  the  other  stays  with  him;  if  he's 
in  prison,  he  gets  him  out;  if  he's  killed,  he  avenges 
his—" 

"Say,"  broke  in  Bud,  jostling  him  rudely  as  he 
reached  into  the  saddle-bags,  "let  me  carry  that 
bottle  for  a  while." 

He  took  a  big  drink  out  of  it  to  prevent  De  Lancey 
from  getting  it  all  and  shoved  it  inside  his  overalls. 

"All  right,  pardner,"  he  continued,  with  a  mock- 


34  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

ing  smile,  "anything  you  say.  I  never  use  oath« 
myself  much,  but  anything  to  oblige/* 

"No,  but  I  mean  it,  Bud!"  cried  De  Lancey. 
"Here's  the  proposition  now:  Whatever  happens, 
we  stay  with  each  other  till  this  deal  is  finished; 
on  all  scratch  cases  we  match  money  to  see  who's 
it;  and  if  we  tangle  over  some  girl  the  best  man 
wins  and  the  other  one  stays  away.  We  leave  it  to 
the  girl  which  one  wins.  Will  you  shake  hands  on 
that?" 

"Don't  need  to,"  responded  Bud;  "I'll  do  it 
anyway." 

"Well,  shake  on  it,  then!"  insisted  De  Lancey, 
holding  out  his  hand. 

"Oh,  Sally!"  burst  out  Bud,  hanging  his  head  in 
embarrassment,  "what's  the  use  of  getting  mushy?" 

But  a  moment  later  he  leaned  over  in  his  saddle 
and  locked  hands  with  a  viselike  grip. 

"My  old  man  told  me  not  to  make  no  such 
promises,"  he  muttered,  "but  I'll  do  it,  being's  it's 
you." 


THE  journey  to  Fortuna  is  a  scant  fifty  miles 
by  measure,  but  within  those  eighty  kilo 
meters  there  is  a  lapse  of  centuries  in  stan 
dards.  As  Bud  and  De  Lancy  rod  out  of  battle- 
scarred  Agua  Negra  they  traveled  a  good  road,  well 
worn  by  the  Mexican  wood-wagons  that  hauled 
in  mesquit  from  the  hills.  Then,  as  they  left  the 
town  and  the  wood  roads  scattered,  the  highway 
changed  by  degrees  to  a  broad  trail,  dug  deep  by  the 
feet  of  pack-animals  and  marked  but  lightly  with 
wheels.  It  followed  along  the  railroad,  cutting 
over  hills  and  down  through  gulches,  and  by  even 
ing  they  were  in  the  heart  of  Old  Mexico. 

Here  were  men  in  sandals  and  women  barefooted; 
chickens  tied  up  by  the  legs  outside  of  brush  jacales; 
long-nosed  hogs,  grunting  fiercely  as  they  skirmished 
for  food;  and  half-naked  children,  staring  like 
startled  rabbits  at  the  strangers. 

The  smell  of  garlic  and  fresh-roasting  coffee  was 
in  the  air  as  they  drew  into  town  for  the  night, 
and  their  room  was  an  adobe  chamber  with  tile 
floor  and  iron  bars  across  the  windows.  Riding 
south  the  next  day  they  met  vaqueros,  mounted  on 
wiry  mustangs,  who  saluted  them  gravely,  taking 
no  shame  for  their  primitive  wooden  saddle-treet 
and  pommels  as  broad  as  soup-plates. 

35 


36  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

As  they  left  the  broad  plain  and  clambered  up 
over  the  back  of  a  mountain  they  passed  Indian 
houses,  brush-built  and  thatched  with  long,  coarse 
grasses,  and  by  the  fires  the  women  ground  corn 
on  stone  metates  as  their  ancestors  had  done  before 
the  fall.  For  in  Mexico  there  are  two  peoples,  the 
Spaniards  and  the  natives,  and  the  Indians  still 
remember  the  days  when  they  were  free. 

It  was  through  such  a  land  that  Phil  and  Hooker 
rode  on  their  gallant  ponies,  leading  a  pack-animal 
well  loaded  with  supplies  from  the  north,  and  as 
the  people  gazed  from  their  miserable  hovels  and 
saw  their  outfit  they  wondered  at  their  wealth. 

But  if  they  were  moved  to  envy,  the  bulk  of  a 
heavy  pistol,  showing  through  the  swell  of  each  coat, 
discouraged  them  from  going  further;  and  the  cold, 
searching  look  of  the  tall  cowboy  as  he  ambled  past 
stayed  in  their  memory  long  after  the  pleasant 
" Adios!"  of  De  Lancey  had  been  forgotten. 

Americans  were  scarce  in  those  days,  and  what 
few  came  by  were  riding  to  the  north.  Flow  bold, 
then,  must  this  big  man  be  who  rode  in  front — 
and  certainly  he  had  some  great  reward  before  him 
to  risk  such  a  horse  among  the  revoltosos!  So 
reasoned  the  simple-minded  natives  of  the  moun 
tains,  gazing  in  admiration  at  Copper  Bottom,  and 
for  that  look  in  their  eyes  Bud  returned  his  forbidding 
stare. 

There  is  something  about  a  good  horse  that  fasci 
nates  the  average  Mexican — perhaps  because  they 
breed  the  finest  themselves  and  are  in  a  position  to 
judge — but  Hooker  had  developed  a  romantic 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  37 

attachment  for  his  trim  little  chestnut  mount  and 
he  resented  their  wide-eyed  gapings  as  a  lover  resents 
glances  at  his  lady.  This,  and  a  frontier  education, 
rendered  him  short-spoken  and  gruff  with  the  pai- 
sanos  and  it  was  left  to  the  cavalier  De  Lancey  to 
do  the  courtesies  of  the  road. 

As  the  second  day  wore  on  they  dipped  down 
into  a  rocky  canon,  with  huge  cliffs  of  red  and  yellow 
sandstone  glowing  in  the  slanting  sun,  and  soon  they 
broke  out  into  a  narrow  valley,  well  wooded  with 
sycamores  and  mesquits  and  giant  hackberry-trees. 

The  shrill  toots  of  a  dummy  engine  came  sud 
denly  from  down  below  and  a  mantle  of  black  smoke 
rose  majestically  against  the  sky — then,  at  a  turn 
of  the  trail,  they  topped  the  last  hill  and  Fortuna 
lay  before  them. 

In  that  one  moment  they  were  set  back  again 
fifty  miles — clear  back  across  the  line — for  Fortuna 
was  American,  from  the  power-house  on  the  creek- 
bank  to  the  mammoth  concentrator  on  the  hill. 

All  the  buildings  were  of  stone,  square  and  uni 
form.  First  a  central  plaza,  flanked  with  offices 
and  warehouses;  then  behind  them  barracks  and 
lodging-houses  and  trim  cottages  in  orderly  rows; 
and  over  across  the  canon  loomed  the  huge  bulk 
of  the  mill  and  the  concentrator  with  its  aerial  tram 
way  and  endless  row  of  gliding  buckets. 

Only  on  the  lower  hills,  where  the  rough  country 
rock  cropped  up  and  nature  was  at  its  worst,  only 
there  did  the  real  Mexico  creep  in  and  assert  itself 
in  a  crude  huddle  of  half-Indian  huts;  the  dwellings 
of  the  care-free  natives. 


38  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Well,  by  Jove!"  exclaimed  De  Lancey,  surrey- 
ing  the  scene  with  an  appraising  eye,  "this  doesn't 
look  very  much  like  Mexico — or  a  revolution,  either  ?' 

"No,  it  don't,"  admitted  Bud;  "everything 
running  full  blast,  too.  Look  at  that  ore-train 
coming  around  the  hill!" 

"Gee,  what  a  burg!"  raved  Phil.  "Say,  there's 
some  class  to  this — what?  If  I  mistake  not,  we'll 
be  able  to  find  a  few  congenial  spirits  here  to  help 
us  spend  our  money.  Talk  about  a  company  town! 
I'll  bet  you  their  barroom  is  full  of  Americans. 
There's  the  corral  down  below — let's  ride  by  and 
leave  our  horses  and  see  what's  the  price  of  drinks. 
They  can't  faze  me,  whatever  it  is — we  doubled  our 
money  at  the  line." 

Financially  considered,  they  had  done  just  that — 
for,  for  every  American  dollar  in  their  pockets  they 
could  get  two  that  were  just  as  good,  except  for  the 
picture  on  the  side.  This  in  itself  was  a  great  induce 
ment  for  a  ready  spender  and,  finding  good  company 
at  the  Fortuna  hotel  bar,  Phil  bought  five  dollars' 
worth  of  drinks,  threw  down  a  five-dollar  bill,  and 
got  back  five  dollars — Mex. 

The  proprietor,  a  large  and  jovial  boniface, 
pulled  ofF  this  fiscal  miracle  with  the  greatest  good 
humor  and  then,  having  invited  them  to  partake  of 
a  very  exquisite  mixture  of  his  own  invention, 
propped  himself  upon  his  elbows  across  the  bar  and 
inquired  with  an  ingenuous  smile: 

"Well,  which  away  are  you  boys  traveling,  if  I 
may  ask?" 

"Oh,  down  below  a  ways,"  answered  De  Lancay, 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  39 

who  always  constituted  himself  the  board  of  strategy. 
"Just  rambling  around  a  little — how's  the  country 
around  here  now?" 

"Oh,  quiet,  quiet!"  assured  their  host.  "These 
Mexicans  don't  like  the  cold  weather  much — they 
would  freeze,  you  know,  if  it  was  not  for  that  zarapt 
which  they  wind  about  them  so!" 

He  made  a  motion  as  of  a  native  wrapping  his 
entire  wardrobe  about  his  neck  and  smiled,  and 
De  Lancey  knew  that  he  was  no  Mexican.  Arid 
yet  that  soft  "which  away"  of  his  betrayed  a 
Spanish  tongue. 

"Ah,  excuse  me,"  he  said,  taking  quick  advantage 
of  his  guess,  "but  from  the  way  you  pronounce  that 
word  'zarape'  I  take  it  that  you  speak  Spanish." 

"No  one  better,"  replied  the  host,  smiling  pleasur- 
ably  at  being  taken  at  his  true  worth,  "since  I  was 
born  in  the  city  of  Burgos,  where  they  speak  the  true 
Castilian.  It  is  a  different  language,  believe  me, 
from  this  bastard  Mexican  tongue.  And  do  you 
speak  Spanish  also?"  he  inquired,  falling  back  into 
the  staccato  of  Castile. 

"No,  indeed!"  protested  De  Lancey  in  a  very 
creditable  imitation;  "nothing  but  a  little  Mexican, 
to  get  along  with  the  natives.  My  friend  and  I  are 
mining  men,  passing  through  the  country,  and  we 
speak  the  best  we  can.  How  is  this  district  here  for 
work  along  our  line?" 

"None  better!"  cried  the  Spaniard,  shaking  his 
finger  emphatically.  "It  is  of  the  best,  and,  believe 
me,  my  friend,  we  should  be  glad  to  have  you  stop 
with  us.  The  country  down  below  is  a  little  danger- 


40  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

ous — not  now,  perhaps,  but  later,  when  the  warm 
weather  comes  on. 

"But  in  Fortuna — no!  Here  we  are  on  the  rail 
road;  the  camp  is  controlled  by  Americans;  and 
because  so  many  have  left  the  country  the  Mexicans 
will  sell  their  prospects  cheap. 

"Then  again,  if  you  develop  a  mine  nearby,  it 
will  be  very  easy  to  sell  it — and  if  you  wish  to  work 
it,  that  is  easy,  too.  I  am  only  the  proprietor  of 
the  hotel,  but  if  you  can  use  my  poor  services  in  any 
way  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  please  you.  A  room? 
One  of  the  best!  And  if  you  stay  a  week  or  more  I 
will  give  you  the  lowest  rate." 

They  passed  up  the  winding  stairs  and  down  a 
long  corridor,  at  the  end  of  which  the  proprietor 
showed  them  into  a  room,  throwing  open  the  outer 
doors  and  shutters  to  let  them  see  the  view  from  the 
window. 

"Here  is  a  little  balcony,"  he  said,  stepping  out 
side,  "where  you  can  sit  and  look  down  on  the  plaza. 
We  have  the  band  and  music  when  the  weather  is 
fine,  and  you  can  watch  the  pretty  girls  from  here. 
But  you  have  been  in  Mexico — you  know  all  that!" 
And  he  gave  Phil  a  roguish  dig. 

"  Bien,  my  frien',  I  am  glad  to  meet  you—  He 
held  out  his  hand  in  welcome  and  De  Lancey  gave 
his  in  return.  "My  name,"  he  continued,  "is  Juan 
de  Dios  Brachamonte  y  Escalon;  but  with  these 
Americans  that  does  not  go,  as  you  say,  so  in  general 
they  call  me  Don  Juan. 

"There  is  something  about  that  name — I  do  not 
know — that  makes  the  college  boys  laugh.  Per- 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  41 

haps  it  is  that  poet,  Byron,  who  wrote  so  scandal 
ously  about  us  Spaniards,  but  certainly  he  knew 
nothing  of  our  language,  for  he  rimes  Don  Juan  with 
'new  one*  and  'true  one'!  Still,  I  read  part  of  that 
poem  and  it  is,  in  places,  very  interesting — yes, 
very  interesting — but  'Don  Joo-an'!  Hah!" 

He  threw  up  his  hand  in  despair  and  De  Lancey 
broke  into  a  jollying  laugh. 

"Well,  Don  Juan,"  he  cried,  "I'm  glad  to  meet 
you.  My  name  is  Philip  De  Lancey,  and  my  pardner 
here  is  Mr.  Hooker.  Shake  hands  with  him,  Don 
Juan  de  Dios!  But  certainly  a  man  so  devoutly 
named  could  never  descend  to  reading  much  of 
Don  Joo-an!" 

"Ah,  no,"  protested  Don  Juan,  rolling  his  dark 
eyes  and  smiling  rakishly,  "not  moch — only  the  most 
in-teresting  passages!" 

He  saluted  and  disappeared  in  a  roar  of  laughter, 
and  De  Lancey  turned  triumphantly  on  his  com 
panion,  a  self-satisfied  smile  upon  his  lips. 

"Aha!"  he  said;  "you  see?  That's  what  five 
dollars'  worth  of  booze  will  do  in  opening  up  the 
way.  Here's  our  old  friend  Don  Juan  willing,  nay, 
anxious,  to  help  us  all  he  can — he  sees  I'm  a  live 
wire  and  wants  to  keep  me  around.  Pretty  soon 
we'll  get  him  feeling  good  and  he'll  tell  us  all  he 
knows.  Don't  you  never  try  to  make  me  sign  the 
pledge  again,  brother — a  few  shots  just  gets  my 
intellect  to  working  right  and  I'm  crafty  as  a  fox. 

"Did  you  notice  that  coup  I  made — asking  him 
if  he  was  a  Spaniard?  There's  nothing  in  the 
world  makes  a  Spaniard  so  mad  as  to  take  him  for  a 


4*  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

Mexican — on  the  other  hand,  nothing  makes  him 
your  friend  for  life  like  recognizing  him  for  a  blue- 
blooded  Castilian.  Now  maybe  our  old  friend  Don 
Juan  has  got  a  few  drops  of  Moorish  blood  in  his 
veins — to  put  it  politely,  but — "  he  raised  his  tenor 
voice  and  improvised — 

"  Jest  because  my  hair  is  curly 
Dat's  no  reason  to  call  me  'Shine'!" 

"No,"  agreed  Bud,  feeling  cautiously  of  the  walls, 
"and  jest  because  you're  happy  is  no  reason  for 
singing  so  loud,  neither.  These  here  partitions 
are  made  of  inch  boards,  covered  with  paper — do 
you  get  that?  Well,  then,  considering  who's  prob 
ably  listening,  it  strikes  me  that  Mr.  Brachamonte 
is  the  real  thing  in  Spanish  gentlemen;  and  I've 
heard  that  all  genuwine  Spaniards  have  their  hair 
curly,  jest  like  a — huh?" 

But  De  Lancey,  made  suddenly  aware  of  his 
indiscretion,  was  making  all  kinds  of  exaggerated 
signs  for  silence,  and  Bud  stopped  with  a  slow, 
good-natured  smile. 

"S-s-st!"  hissed  De  Lancey,  touching  his  finger 
to  his  lips.  "Don't  say  it — somebody  might  hear 
you!" 

"All  right,"  agreed  Bud;  "and  don't  you  say  it, 
either.  I  hate  to  knock,  Phil,"  he  added,  "but 
sometimes  I  think  the  old  man  was  right  when  he 
said  you  talk  too  much." 

"Psst!"  chided  De  Lancey,  shaking  his  finger  like 
a  Mexican,  Tiptoeing  softly  over  to  Bud,  he  whis- 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  43 

pered  in  his  ear:  "S-s-st,  I  can  hear  the  feller  in  the 
next  room — shaving  himself !" 

Laughing  heartily  at  this  joke,  they  went  down 
stairs  for  supper. 


VI 

IF  the  Eagle  Tail  mine  had  been  located  in 
Arizona — or  even  farther  down  in  Old  Mexico 
— the  method  of  jumping  the  claim  would  have 
been  delightfully  simple. 

The  title  had  lapsed,  and  the  land  had  reverted 
to  the  government.  All  it  needed  in  Arizona  was  a 
new  set  of  monuments,  a  location  notice  at  the  dis 
covery  shaft,  a  pick  and  shovel  thrown  into  the  hole, 
and  a  few  legal  formalities. 

But  in  Mexico  it  is  different.  Not  that  the  legal 
formalities  are  lacking — far  from  it — but  the  whole 
theory  of  mines  and  mining  is  different.  In  Mexico 
a  mining  title  is,  in  a  way,  a  lease,  a  concession  from 
the  general  government  giving  the  concessionaire 
the  right  to  work  a  certain  piece  of  ground  and  to 
hold  it  as  long  as  he  pays  a  mining  tax  of  three 
dollars  an  acre  per  year. 

But  no  final  papers  or  patents  are  ever  issued, 
the  possession  of  the  surface  of  the  ground  does  not 
go  with  the  right  to  mine  beneath  it,  and  in  certain 
parts  of  Mexico  no  foreigner  can  hold  title  to  either 
mines  or  land. 

A  prohibited  or  frontier  zone,  eighty  kilometers 
in  width,  lies  along  the  international  boundary  line, 
and  in  that  neutral  zone  no  foreigner  can  denounce 
a  mining  claim  and  no  foreign  corporation  can 

44 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  45 

acquire  a  title  to  one.  The  Eagle  Tail  was  just  inside 
the  zone. 

But — there  is  always  a  "but"  when  you  go  to  a 
good  lawyer — while  for  purposes  of  war  and  national 
safety  foreigners  are  not  allowed  to  hold  land  along 
the  line,  they  are  at  perfect  liberty  to  hold  stock  in 
Mexican  corporations  owning  property  within  the 
prohibited  zone;  and — here  is  where  the  graft  comes 
in — they  may  even  hold  title  in  their  OWTI  name  if 
they  first  obtain  express  permission  from  the  chief 
executive  of  the  republic. 

Not  having  any  drag  with  the  chief  executive, 
and  not  caring  to  risk  their  title  to  the  whims  of 
succeeding  administrations,  Hooker  and  De  Lancey, 
upon  the  advice  of  a  mining  lawyer  in  Gadsden,  had 
organized  themselves  into  the  Eagle  Tail  Mining 
Company,  under  the  laws  of  the  republic  of  Mexico, 
with  headquarters  at  Agua  Negra.  It  was  their 
plan  to  get  some  Mexican  to  locate  the  mine  for 
them  and  then,  for  a  consideration,  transfer  it  to 
the  company. 

The  one  weak  spot  in  this  scheme  was  the  Mexi 
can.  By  trusting  Aragon,  Henry  Kruger  had  not 
only  lost  title  to  his  mine,  but  he  had  been  outlawed 
from  the  republic.  And  now  he  had  bestowed  upon 
Hooker  and  De  Lancey  the  task  of  finding  an  honest 
Mexican,  and  keeping  him  honest  until  he  made  the 
transfer. 

While  the  papers  were  being  made  out  there  might 
be  a  great  many  temptations  placed  before  that 
Mexican — either  to  keep  the  property  for  himself  or 
to  hold  out  for  a  bigger  reward  than  had  been  speci- 


4J6  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

fied.  After  his  experience  with  the  aristocratic 
Don  Cipriano  Aragon  y  Tres  Palacios,  Kruger  was 
in  favor  of  taking  a  chance  on  the  lower  classes.  He 
had  therefore  recommended  to  them  one  Cruz 
Mendez,  a  wood  vender  whom  he  had  known  and 
befriended,  as  the  man  to  play  the  part. 

Cruz  Mendez,  according  to  Kruger,  was  hard 
working,  sober,  and  honest — for  a  Mexican.  He  was 
also  simple-minded  and  easy  to  handle,  and  was  the 
particular  man  who  had  sent  word  that  the  Eagle 
Tail  had  at  last  been  abandoned.  And  also  he 
was  easy  to  pick  out,  being  a  little,  one-eyed  man 
and  going  by  the  name  of  "El  Tuerto." 

So,  in  pursuance  of  their  policy  of  playing  a  wait 
ing  game,  Hooker  and  De  Lancey  hung  around  the 
hotel  for  several  days,  listening  to  the  gossip  of 
Don  Juan  de  Dios  and  watching  for  one-eyed  men 
with  prospects  to  sell. 

In  Sonora  he  is  a  poor  and  unimaginative  man 
indeed  who  has  not  at  least  one  lost  mine  or  "pros- 
pecto"  to  sell;  and  prosperous-looking  strangers, 
riding  through  the  country,  are  often  beckoned  aside 
by  half-naked  paisanos  eager  to  show  them  the 
gold  mines  of  the  Spanish  padres  for  a  hundred 
dollars  Mex. 

It  was  only  a  matter  of  time,  they  thought,  until 
Cruz  Mendez  would  hunt  them  up  and  try  to  sell 
them  the  Eagle  Tail;  and  it  was  their  intention 
reluctantly  to  close  the  bargain  with  him,  for  a  speci 
fied  sum,  and  then  stake  him  to  the  denouncement 
fees  and  gain  possession  of  the  mine. 

As  this  was  a  commonplace  in  the  district — no 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  47 

Mexican  having  capital  enough  to  work  a  claim 
and  no  American  having  the  right  to  locate  one — it 
was  a  very  natural  and  inconspicuous  way  of  jump 
ing  Sefior  Aragon  y  Tres  Palacios's  abandoned  claim. 
If  they  discovered  the  lead  immediately  afterward  it 
would  pass  for  a  case  of  fool's  luck,  or  at  least  so  they 
hoped,  and,  riding  out  a  little  each  day  and  sitting 
on  the  hotel  porch  with  Don  Juan  the  rest  of  the  time, 
they  waited  until  patience  seemed  no  longer  a  virtue. 

"Don  Juan,"  said  De  Lancey,  taking  up  the 
probe  at  last,  "I  had  a  Mexican  working  for  me  when 
we  were  over  in  the  Sierras — one  of  your  real,  old- 
time  workers  that  had  never  been  spoiled  by  an 
education — and  he  was  always  talking  about  'La 
Fortuna,'  I  guess  this  was  the  place  he  meant, 
but  it  doesn't  look  like  it — according  to  him  it  was 
a  Mexican  town.  Maybe  he's  around  here  now — 
his  name  was  Mendez." 

"Jose  Maria  Mendez?"  inquired  Don  Juan, 
who  was  a  living  directory  of  the  place.  "Ricardo? 
Pancho?  Cruz?" 

"Cruz!"  cried  De  Lancey.     "That  was  it!" 

"He  lives  down  the  river  a  couple  of  miles,"  said 
Don  Juan,  "down  at  Old  Fortuna." 

"Old  Fortuna!"  repeated  Phil.  "I  didn't  know 
there  was  such  a  place." 

"Why,  my  gracious!"  exclaimed  Don  Juan  de 
Dios,  scandalized  by  such  ignorance.  "Do  you 
mean  to  say  you  have  been  here  three  days  and  never 
heard  about  Fortuna  Vieja?  Why,  this  isn't  For 
tuna!  This  is  an  American  mining  camp — the  old 
town  is  down  below. 


48  THE   DESERT  TRAIL 

"That's  where  this  man  Aragon,  the  big  Mexican 
of  the  country,  has  his  ranch  and  store.  Spanish? 
Him?  No,  indeed — mitad!  He  is  half  Spanish 
and  half  Yaqui  Indian,  but  his  wife  is  a  pure  Span 
iard — one  of  the  few  in  the  country.  Her  father 
was  from  Madrid  and  she  is  a  Villanueva — a  very 
beautiful  woman  in  her  day,  with  golden  hair  and  the 
presence  of  a  queen! 

"No,  not  Irish!  My  goodness,  you  Americans 
think  that  everybody  with  red  hair  is  Irish!  Why, 
the  most  beautiful  women  in  Madrid  have  chestnut 
hair  as  soft  as  the  fur  of  a  dormouse.  It  is  the  old 
Castilian  hair,  and  they  are  proud  of  it.  The 
Senora  Aragon  married  beneath  her  station — it 
was  in  the  City  of  Mexico,  and  she  did  not  know 
that  he  was  an  Indian — but  she  is  a  very  nice  lady 
for  all  that  and  never  omits  to  bow  to  me  when  she 
comes  up  to  take  the  train.  I  remember  one 


time—" 


"Does  Cruz  Mendez  work  for  him?"  interjected 
De  Lancey  desperately. 

"No,  indeed!"  answered  Don  Juan  patiently. 
"He  packs  in  wood  from  the  hills — but  as  I  was  say 
ing—  '  and  from  that  he  went  on  to  tell  of  the 
unfailing  courtesy  of  the  Senora  Aragon  to  a  gentle 
man  whom,  whatever  his  present  station  might  be, 
she  recognized  as  a  member  of  one  of  the  oldest 
families  in  Castile. 

De  Lancey  did  not  press  his  inquiries  any  further, 
but  the  next  morning,  instead  of  riding  back  into 
the  hills,  he  and  Bud  turned  their  faces  down  the 
canon  to  seek  out  the  elusive  Mendez.  They  had, 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  49 

of  course,  been  acting  a  part  for  Don  Juan,  since 
Kruger  had  described  Old  Fortuna  and  the  Senor 
Aragon  with  great  minuteness. 

And  now,  in  the  guise  of  innocent  strangers,  they 
rode  on  down  the  river,  past  the  concentrator  with 
its  multiple  tanks,  its  gliding  tramway  and  moun 
tains  of  tailings,  through  the  village  of  Indian  houses 
stuck  like  dugouts  against  the  barren  hill — then  along 
a  river-bed  that  oozed  with  slickings  until  they  came 
in  sight  of  the  town. 

La  Fortuna  was  an  old  to\vn,  yet  not  so  old  as  its 
name,  since  two  Fortunas  before  it  had  been  washed 
away  by  cloudbursts  and  replaced  by  newer  dwel 
lings.  The  settlement  itself  was  some  four  hundred 
years  old,  dating  back  to  the  days  of  the  Spanish 
conquistador  esy  when  it  yielded  up  many  mule-loads 
of  gold. 

The  present  town  was  built  a  little  up  from  the 
river  in  the  lee  of  a  great  ridge  of  rocks  thrust  down 
from  the  hill  and  well  calculated  to  turn  aside  a 
glut  of  waters.  It  was  a  comfortable  huddle  of 
whitewashed  adobe  buildings  set  on  both  sides  of 
a  narrow  and  irregular  road — the  great  trail  that 
led  down  to  the  hot  country — and  was  worn  deep 
by  the  pack-trains  of  centuries. 

On  the  lower  side  was  the  ample  store  and  cantina 
of  Don  Cipriano,  wrhere  the  thirsty  arrieros  could 
get  a  drink  and  buy  a  panoche  of  sugar  without 
getting  down  from  their  mounts.  Behind  the  store 
were  the  pole  corrals  and  adobe  warehouses  and  the 
quarters  for  the  peons,  and  across  the  road  was  the 
mescal  still  where,  in  huge  copper  retort  and  worm, 


So  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

the  fiery  liquor  was  distilled  from  the  sugar-laden 
heads  of  Yuccas. 

This  was  the  town,  but  the  most  important  build 
ing — set  back  in  the  shade  of  mighty  cottonwoods 
and  pleasantly  aloof  from  the  road — was  the  resi 
dence  of  Senor  Aragon.  It  was  this,  in  fact,  which 
held  the  undivided  attention  of  De  Lancey  as  they 
rode  quietly  through  the  village,  for  he  had  become 
accustomed  from  a  long  experience  in  the  tropics 
to  look  for  something  elusive,  graceful,  and  feminine 
in  houses  set  back  in  a  garden.  Nothing  stirred, 
however,  and,  having  good  reason  to  avoid  Don 
Cipriano,  they  jogged  steadily  on  their  way. 

"Some  house!"  observed  Phil,  with  a  last,  hopeful 
look  over  his  shoulder. 

"Uh,"  assented  Bud,  as  they  came  to  a  fork  in 
the  road.  "Say,"  he  continued,  "let's  turn  off 
on  this  trail.  Lot  of  burro  tracks  going  out — 
expect  it's  our  friend,  Mr.  Mendez." 

"All  right,"  said  De  Lancey  absently.  "Wonder 
where  old  Aragon  keeps  that  bee-utiful  daughter 
of  his — the  one  Don  Joo-an  was  telling  about.  Have 
to  stop  on  the  way  back  and  sample  the  old  man's 
mescal" 

"Nothing  doing!"  countered  Hooker  instantly. 
"Now  you  heard  what  I  told  you — there's  two 
things  you  leave  alone  for  sixty  days — booze  and 
women.  After  we  cinch  our  title  you  can  get  as 
gay  as  you  please." 

"Oo-ee!"  piped  Phil,  "hear  the  boy  talk!"  But 
he  said  no  more  of  wine  and  women,  for  he  knew 
how  they  do  complicate  life. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  51 

They  rode  to  the  east  now,  following  the  long, 
flat  footprints  of  the  burros,  and  by  all  the  land 
marks  Bud  saw  that  they  were  heading  straight  for 
the  old  Eagle  Tail  mine.  At  Old  Fortuna  the  river 
turns  west  and  at  the  same  time  four  canons  come 
in  from  the  east  and  south.  Of  these  they  had 
taken  the  first  to  the  north  and  it  was  leading  them 
past  all  the  old  workings  that  Kruger  had  spoken 
about.  In  fact,  they  were  almost  at  the  mine  when 
Hooker  swung  down  suddenly  from  his  horse  and 
motioned  Phil  to  follow. 

"There's  some  burros  coming/*  he  said,  glanc 
ing  back  significantly;  and  when  the  pack-train 
came  by,  each  animal  piled  high  with  broken  wood, 
the  two  Americans  were  busily  tapping  away  at  a 
section  of  country  rock.  A  man  and  a  boy  followed 
behind  the  animals,  gazing  with  wonder  at  the 
strangers,  and  as  Phil  bade  them  a  pleasant  "Buenos 
dias!"  they  came  to  a  halt  and  stared  at  their 
industry  in  silence.  In  the  interval  Phil  was  pleased 
to  note  that  the  old  man  had  only  one  eye. 

"One  busca?"  the  one-eyed  one  finally  inquired. 
"What  are  you  looking  for?" 

And  when  Phil  oracularly  answered,  "Gold!" 
the  old  man  made  a  motion  to  the  boy  to  go  on  and 
sat  down  on  a  neighboring  rock. 

"Do  you  want  to  buy  a  prospect?"  he  asked, 
and  Bud  glanced  up  at  him  grimly. 

"We  find  our  own  prospects,"  answered  Phil. 

"But  I  know  of  a  very  rich  prospect,"  protested 
Mendez;  "very  rich!"  He  shrilled  his  voice  to 
express  how  rich  it  was. 


52  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Yes?"  observed  Phil.  "Then  why  don't  you  dig 
the  gold  out?  But  as  for  us,  we  find  our  own  mines. 
That  is  our  business." 

"Seguro!"  nodded  Mendez,  glancing  at  their 
outfit  approvingly.  "But  I  am  a  poor  man — very 
poor — I  cannot  denounce  the  mine.  So  I  wait  for 
some  rich  American  to  come  and  buy  it.  I  have  a 
friend — a  very  rich  man — in  Gadsden,  but  he  will 
not  come;  so  I  will  sell  it  to  you." 

"Did  you  get  that,  Bud?"  jested  Phil  in  English. 
"The  old  man  here  thinks  we're  rich  Americans  and 
he  wants  to  sell  us  a  mine." 

Bud  laughed  silently  at  this,  and  Mr.  Mendez, 
his  hopes  somewhat  blasted  by  their  levity,  began  to 
boast  of  his  find,  giving  the  history  of  the  Eagle 
Tail  with  much  circumstantiality  and  explaining 
that  it  was  a  lost  padre  mine. 

"Sure,"  observed  Phil,  going  back  to  his  horse 
and  picking  up  the  bridle,  "that's  what  they  all 
say.  They're  all  lost  padre  mines,  and  you  can  see 
them  from  the  door  of  the  church.  Come  on,  Bud, 
let's  go!" 

"And  so  you  could  this,"  cried  Mendez,  running 
along  after  them  as  they  rode  slowly  up  the  canon, 
"from  the  old  church  that  was  washed  away  by  the 
flood!  This  is  the  very  mine  where  the  padres  dug 
out  all  their  gold!  Are  you  going  up  this  way? 
Come,  then,  and  I  will  show  you — the  very 
place,  except  that  the  Americano  ruined  it  with  a 
blast!" 

He  tagged  along  after  them,  wheedling  and  pro 
testing  while  they  bantered  him  about  his  mine, 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  53 

until  they  finally  came  to  the  place — the  ruins  of 
the  old  Eagle  Tail. 

It  lay  spraddled  out  along  the  hillside,  a  series 
of  gopher-holes,  dumps,  and  abandoned  workings, 
looking  more  like  a  badly  managed  stone-quarry 
than  a  relic  of  padre  days.  Kruger's  magazine  of 
giant  powder  exploded  in  one  big  blast,  had  destroyed 
all  traces  of  his  mine,  besides  starting  an  avalanche 
of  loose  shale  that  had  poured  down  and  filled  the 
pocket. 

Added  to  this,  Aragon  and  his  men  had  rooted 
around  in  the  debris  in  search  of  the  vein,  and  the 
story  of  their  inefficient  work  was  told  by  great  piles 
of  loose  rock  stacked  up  beside  caved-in  trenches 
and  a  series  of  timid  tunnels  driven  into  the  neigh 
boring  ridges. 

Under  the  circumstances  it  would  certainly  call 
for  a  mining  engineer  to  locate  the  lost  lead,  and 
De  Lancey  looked  it  over  thoughtfully  as  he  began 
to  figure  on  the  work  to  be  done.  Undoubtedly 
there  was  a  mine  there — and  the  remains  of  an 
old  Spanish  smelter  down  the  creek  showred  that 
the  ground  had  once  been  very  rich — but  if  Kruger 
had  not  told  him  in  advance  he  would  have  passed 
up  the  job  in  a  minute. 

"Well,"  he  said,  turning  coldly  upon  the  fawning 
Mendez,  who  was  all  curves  in  his  desire  to  please, 
"where  is  your  prospecto?" 

" Aquiy  senor!"  replied  the  Mexican,  pointing 
to  the  disrupted  rockslide.  "Here  it  was  that  the 
Americano  Crooka  had  his  mine — rich  with  gold — 
much  gold!" 


54  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

He  shrilled  his  voice  emphatically,  and  De  Lancey 
shrilled  his  in  reply. 

"Here?"  he  exclaimed,  gazing  blankly  at  the  hill 
side,  and  then  he  broke  into  a  laugh.  "All  right, 
my  friend/*  he  said,  giving  Bud  a  facetious  wink; 
"how  much  do  you  want  for  this  prospect?" 

"Four  hundred  dollars,"  answered  Mendez  in  a 
tone  at  once  hopeful  and  apologetic.  "It  is  very 
rich.  Senor  Crooka  shipped  some  ore  that  was  full 
of  gold.  I  packed  it  out  for  him  on  my  burros;  but, 
I  am  sorry,  I  have  no  piece  of  it. " 

"Yes,"  responded  De  Lancey,  "I  am  sorry,  too. 
So,  of  course,  we  cannot  buy  the  prospecto  since 
you  have  no  ore  to  show;  but  I  am  glad  for  this, 
Senor  Mendez,"  he  continued  with  a  kindly  smile; 
"it  shows  that  you  are  an  honest  man,  or  you  would 
have  stolen  a  piece  of  ore  from  the  sacks.  So  show 
us  now  where  the  gold  was  found,  the  nearest  that 
you  can  remember,  and  perhaps,  if  we  think  we  can 
find  it,  we  will  pay  you  to  denounce  the  claim  for 


us." 


At  this  the  one  good  eye  of  Cruz  Mendez  lighted 
up  with  a  great  hope  and,  skipping  lightly  over  the 
rock-piles  with  his  sandaled  feet,  he  ran  to  a  certain 
spot,  locating  it  by  looking  across  the  canon  and  up 
and  down  the  creek. 

"Here,  senorcsy"  he  pronounced,  "is  where  the 
mouth  of  the  old  tunnel  came  out.  Standing 
inside  it  I  could  see  that  tree  over  there,  and  look 
ing  down  the  river  I  could  just  see  the  smelter  around 
the  point.  So,  then,  the  gold  must  be  in  there," 
He  pointed  toward  the  hill. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  55 

"Surely,"  said  De  Lancey;  "but  where?" 

The  old  Mexican  shrugged  his  shoulders  depre- 
catingly. 

"I  do  not  know,  scnor"  he  answered;  "but  if 
you  wish  to  dig  I  will  denounce  the  claim  for 
you." 

"For  how  much?"  inquired  De  Lancey  guardedly. 

"For  one  hundred  dollars,"  answered  Mendez, 
and  to  his  delight  the  American  seemed  to  be  con 
sidering  it.  He  walked  back  and  forth  across  the 
slide,  picking  up  rocks  and  looking  at  them,  dropping 
down  into  the  futile  trenches  of  Aragon,  and  frown 
ing  with  studious  thought.  His  pardner,  however, 
sat  listlessly  on  a  boulder  and  tested  the  action  of  his 
six-shooter. 

"Listen,  my  friend,"  said  De  Lancey,  coming 
back  and  poising  his  finger  impressively.  "If  I 
should  find  the  ledge  the  one  hundred  dollars  would 
be  nothing  to  me,  sabe?  And  if  I  should  spend  all 
my  money  for  nothing  it  would  be  but  one  hundred 
dollars  more.  But  listen!  I  have  known  some 
false  Mexicans  who,  when  an  American  paid  them 
to  denounce  a  mine,  took  advantage  of  his  kindness 
and  refused  to  give  it  over.  Or,  if  it  turned  out  to 
be  rich,  they  pulled  a  long  face  and  claimed  that 
they  ought  to  be  paid  more.  Now  if— 

"Ah,  no,  no,  senor!"  clamored  Mendez,  holding 
up  his  hand  in  protest.  "I  am  a  poor  man,  but  I 
am  honest.  Only  give  me  the  hundred  dollars — ' 

"Not  a  dollar  do  you  get!"  cried  De  Lancey 
sternly;  "not  a  dollar — until  you  turn  over  the  con 
cession  to  the  mine.  And  if  you  play  us  false — " 


56  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

he    paused    impressively — "cuidado,    hombre — look 
out!" 

Once  more  Cruz  Mendez  protested  his  honesty 
and  his  fidelity  to  any  trust,  but  De  Lancey  silenced 
him  impatiently. 

"Enough,  hombre!"  he  said.  "Words  are  noth 
ing  to  us.  Do  you  see  my  friend  over  there?"  He 
pointed  to  Bud  who,  huge  and  dominating  against 
the  sky-line,  sat  toying  with  his  pistol.  " Buen! 
He  is  a  cowboy,  sabe?  A  Texan!  You  know  the 
Tejanos,  eh?  They  do  not  like  Mexicans.  But 
my  friend  there,  he  likes  Mexicans — when  they  are 
honest.  If  not — no!  Hey,  Bud,"  he  called  in 
English,  "what  would  you  do  to  this  fellow  if  he 
beat  us  out  of  the  mine?" 

Bud  turned  upon  them  with  a  slow,  good-natured 
smile. 

"Oh,  nothing  much,"  he  answered,  putting  up 
his  gun;  and  the  deep  rumble  of  his  voice  struck 
fear  into  the  old  man's  heart. 

Phil  laughed  and  looked  grimly  at  Mendez  while 
he  delivered  his  ultimatum. 

"Very  well,  my  friend,"  he  said.  "We  will  stay 
and  look  at  this  mine.  If  we  think  it  is  good  we 
will  take  you  to  the  mining  agent  and  get  a  permit 
to  dig.  For  sixty  days  we  will  dig,  and  if  we  find 
nothing  we  will  pay  you  fifty  dollars,  anyway.  If 
we  find  the  ledge  we  will  give  you  a  hundred  dollars. 
All  right?" 

"St,  senor — si,  senor!"  cried  Mendez,  "one  hun 
dred  dollars!" 

"When  you  give  us  the  papers!"  warned  Phil. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  57 

"But  remember — be  careful!  The  Americans  do 
not  like  men  who  talk.  And  come  to  the  hotel  at 
Fortuna  to-morrow — then  we  will  let  you  know/' 

"And  you  will  buy  the  mine?"  begged  Mendez, 
backing  off  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"Perhaps,"  answered  De  Lancey.  "We  will  tell 
you  to-morrow." 

"Buen!"  bowed  Mendez.    "And  many  thanks!" 

"It  is  nothing,"  replied  De  Lancey  politely,  and 
then  with  a  crooked  smile  he  gazed  after  the  old 
man  as  he  went  hurrying  off  down  the  canon. 

"Well,"  he  observed,  "I  guess  we've  got  Mr. 
Mendez  started  just  about  right — what?  Now  if 
we  can  keep  him  without  the  price  of  a  drink  until 
we  get  out  papers  we  stand  a  chance  to  win." 

"That's  right,"  said  Bud;  "but  I  wish  he  had  two 
good  eyes.  I  knowed  a  one-eyed  Mex  up  in  Arizona 
and  he  was  sure  a  thieving  son  of  a  goat!" 


VII 


THERE  are  doubtless  many  philanthropists 
in  the  Back  Bay  regions  of  Boston  who 
would  consider  the  whipsawing  of  Cruz 
Mendez  a  very  reprehensible  act.  And  one  hundred 
dollars  Mex  was  certainly  a  very  small  reward  for 
the  service  that  he  was  to  perform. 

But  Bud  and  Phil  were  not  traveling  for  any 
particular  uplift  society,  and  one  hundred  pesos 
was  a  lot  of  money  to  Cruz  Mendez.  More  than 
that,  if  they  had  offered  him  a  thousand  dollars  for 
the  same  service  he  would  have  got  avaricious  and 
demanded  ten  thousand. 

He  came  to  the  hotel  very  early  the  next  morning 
and  lingered  around  an  hour  or  so,  waiting  for  the 
American  gentlemen  to  arise  and  tell  him  his  fate. 
A  hundred  dollars  would  buy  everything  that  he 
could  think  of,  including  a  quantity  of  mescal. 
His  throat  dried  at  the  thought  of  it. 

Then  the  gentlemen  appeared  and  asked  him 
many  questions — whether  he  was  married  according 
to  law,  whether  his  wife  would  sign  the  papers  with 
him,  and  if  he  believed  in  a  hereafter  for  those  who 
played  false  with  Americans.  Having  answered 
all  these  in  the  affirmative,  he  was  taken  to  the 
agente  mineral,  and,  after  signing  his  name — his 

58 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  59 

one  feat  in  penmanship — to  several  imposing  docu-. 
ments,  he  was  given  the  precious  permit. 

Then  there  was  another  trip  to  the  grounds  with 
a  surveyor,  to  make  report  that  the  claim  was 
actually  vacant,  and  Mendez  went  back  to  his 
normal  duties  as  a  packer. 

In  return  for  this  service  as  a  dummy  locator,  and 
to  keep  him  under  their  eye,  the  Americans  engaged 
El  Tuerto,  the  one-eyed,  to  pack  out  a  few  tools  and 
supplies  for  them;  and  then,  to  keep  him  busy, 
they  employed  him  further  to  build  a  stone  house. 

All  these  activities  were,  of  course,  not  lost  on 
Don  Cipriano  Aragon  y  Tres  Palacios,  since,  by  a" 
crafty  arrangement  of  fences,  he  had  made  it  impos 
sible  for  anyone  to  reach  the  lower  country  without 
passing  through  the  crooked  street  of  Old  Fortuna. 

During  the  first  and  the  second  trip  of  the  strange 
Americans  he  kept  within  his  dignity,  hoping  per 
haps  that  they  would  stop  at  his  store,  where  they 
could  be  engaged  in  conversation;  but  upon  their 
return  from  a  third  trip,  after  Cruz  Mendez  had' 
gone  through  with  their  supplies,  he  cast  his  proud' 
Spanish  reserve  to  the  winds  and  waylaid  them  on; 
the  street. 

"  Buenas  tardes,  scnorcs"  he  saluted,  as  they  rode 
past  his  store,  and  then,  seeing  that  they  did  not 
break  their  gait,  he  held  up  his  hand  for  them  to 
stop. 

"Excuse  me,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  speaking  gen 
ially  but  with  an  affected  Spanish  lisp.  "I  have  seen 
you  ride  past  several  times — are  you  working  for 
the  big  company  up  at  New  Fortuna  ? " 


60  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"No,  senor"  answered  De  Lancey  courteously, 
"we  are  working  for  ourselves." 

"Good!"  responded  Aragon  with  fatherly  ap 
proval.  "It  is  better  so.  Anr1  are  you  looking  at 
mines?" 

"Yes,"  said  De  Lancey  non-committally;  "we 
are  looking  at  mines." 

"That  is  good,  too,"  observed  Aragon;  "and  I 
wish  you  well,  but  since  you  are  strangers  to  this 
country  and  perhaps  do  not  know  the  people  as 
well  as  some,  I  desire  to  warn  you  against  that  one- 
eyed  man,  Cruz  Mendez,  with  whom  I  have  seen  you 
riding.  He  is  a  worthless  fellow — a  very  pelado 
Mexican,  one  who  has  nothing — and  yet  he  is  always 
seeking  to  impose  upon  strangers  by  selling  them  old 
mines  which  have  no  value. 

"I  have  no  desire  to  speak  ill  of  my  neighbors, 
but  since  he  has  moved  into  the  brush  house  up 
the  river  I  have  lost  several  fine  little  pigs;  and  his 
eye,  as  I  know,  was  torn  from  his  head  as  he  was 
chasing  another  man's  cow.  I  have  not  suffered 
him  on  my  ranch  for  years,  he  is  such  a  thief,  and 
yet  he  has  the  effrontery  to  represent  himself  to 
strangers  as  a  poor  but  honest  man.  I  hope  that 
he  has  not  imposed  upon  you  in  any  way?" 

"No;  not  at  all,  thank  you,"  responded  De 
Lancey,  as  Bud  raised  his  bridle-reins  to  go.  "We 
hired  him  to  pack  out  our  tools  and  supplies  and  he 
has  done  it  very  reasonably.  But  many  thanks, 
sir,  for  your  warning.  Adios!" 

He  touched  his  hat  and  waved  his  hand  in  parting, 
and  Bud  grinned  as  he  settled  down  to  a  trot. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  61 

"You  can't  help  palavering  'em,  can  you,  Phil?" 
he  said.  "No  matter  what  you  think  about  'em, 
you  got  to  be  polite,  haven't  you?  Well,  that's  the 
way  you  get  drawn  in — next  time  you  go  by  now  the 
old  man  will  pump  you  dry — you  see.  No,  sir, 
the  only  way  to  get  along  with  these  Mexicans  is 
not  to  have  a  thing  to  do  with  'em.  'No  savvy' — 
that's  my  motto  ' 

"Well,  'muchas  gracias9  is  mine,"  observed  De 
Lancey.  "It  doesn't  cost  anything,  and  it  buys  a 
whole  lot." 

"Sure,"  agreed  Bud;  "but  we  ain't  buying  noth 
ing  from  him — he's  the  one  particular  hombre  we 
want  to  steer  clear  of,  and  keep  him  guessing  as  long 
as  we  can.  That's  my  view  of  it,  pardner." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  laughed  De  Lancey,  "he 
won't  get  anything  out  of  me — that  is,  nothing  but 
a  bunch  of  hot  air.  Say,  he's  a  shrewd-looking  old 
guinea,  isn't  he?  Did  you  notice  that  game  eye? 
He  kept  it  kind  of  drooped,  almost  shut,  until  he 
came  to  the  point — and  then  he  opened  it  up  real 
fierce.  Reminds  me  of  a  big  fighting  owl  waking 
up  in  the  day-time.  But  you  just  watch  me  handle 
him,  and  if  I  don't  fool  the  old  boy  at  every  turn 
it'll  be  because  I  run  out  of  bull." 

"Well,  you  can  hand  him  the  bull  if  you  want 
to,"  grumbled  Bud,  "but  the  first  time  you  give 
anything  away  I'm  going  to  pick  such  a  row  with 
the  old  cuss  that  we'll  have  to  make  a  new  trail  to 
get  by.  So  leave  'im  alone,  if  you  ever  expect  to 
see  that  girl!" 

A  close  association  with  Phil  De  Lancey  had  left 


62  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

Bud  not  unaware  of  his  special  weaknesses,  and 
Phil  was  undoubtedly  romantic.  Given  a  barred 
and  silent  house,  shut  off  from  the  street  by  whitened 
walls  and  a  veranda  screened  with  flowers,  and  the 
questing  eyes  of  Mr.  De  Lancey  would  turn  to  those 
barred  windows  as  certainly  as  the  needle  seeks  the 
pole. 

On  every  trip,  coming  and  going,  he  had  conned 
the  Aragon  house  from  the  vine-covered  corrector 
in  front  to  the  walled-in  summer-garden  behind, 
hoping  to  surprise  a  view  of  the  beautiful  daughter 
of  the  house.  And  unless  rumor  and  Don  Juan 
were  at  fault,  she  was  indeed  worthy  of  his  solici 
tude — a  gay  and  sprightly  creature,  brown-eyed  like 
her  mother  and  with  the  same  glorious  chestnut  hair. 

Already  those  dark,  mischievous  eyes  had  been 
busy  and,  at  the  last  big  dance  at  Fortuna,  she  had 
set  many  heads  awhirl.  Twice  within  two  years 
her  father,  in  a  rage,  had  sent  her  away  to  school  in 
order  to  break  off  some  ill-considered  love-affair; 
and  now  a  battle  royal  was  being  waged  between 
Manuel  del  Rey,  the  dashing  captain  of  the  rurales 
stationed  at  Fortuna,  and  Feliz  Luna,  son  of  a  rich 
haciendado  down  in  the  hot  country,  for  the  honor  of 
her  hand. 

What  more  romantic,  then,  than  that  a  handsome 
American,  stepping  gracefully  into  the  breach, 
should  keep  the  haughty  lovers  from  slaying  each 
other  by  bearing  off  the  prize  himself? 

So  reasoned  Philip  De  Lancey,  musing  upon  the 
ease  with  which  he  could  act  the  part;  but  for 
prudential  purposes  he  said  nothing  of  his  vaunt- 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  63 

ing  ambitions,  knowing  full  well  that  they  would 
receive  an  active  veto  from  Bud. 

For,  while  De  Lancey  did  most  of  the  talking,  and 
a  great  deal  of  the  thinking  for  the  partnership, 
Hooker  was  not  lacking  in  positive  opinions;  and 
upon  sufficient  occasion  he  would  express  himself, 
though  often  with  more  force  than  delicacy.  There 
fore,  upon  this  unexpected  sally  about  the  girl, 
Phil  changed  the  subject  abruptly  and  said  no  more 
of  Aragon  or  the  hopes  within  his  heart. 

It  was  not  so  easy,  however,  to  avoid  Aragon, 
for  that  gentleman  had  apparently  taken  the  pains 
to  inform  himself  as  to  the  place  where  they  were  at 
work,  and  he  was  waiting  for  them  in  the  morning 
with  a  frown  as  black  as  a  thunder-cloud. 

"He's  on!"  muttered  Phil,  as  they  drew  near 
enough  to  see  his  face.  "What  shall  we  do?" 

"Do  nothing,"  growled  Bud  through  his  teeth; 
"you  jest  let  me  do  the  talking!" 

He  maneuvered  his  horse  adroitly  and,  with  a 
skilful  turn,  cut  in  between  his  pardner  and  Aragon. 

'"S  dias"  he  greeted,  gazing  down  in  burly 
defiance  at  the  militant  Aragon;  and  at  the  same 
moment  he  gave  De  Lancey's  horse  a  furtive  touch 
with  his  spur. 

"Buenos  dias,  senores!"  returned  Aragon,  striding 
forward  to  intercept  them;  but  as  neither  of  the 
Americans  looked  back,  he  was  left  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  street. 

"That's  the  way  to  handle  Jim,"  observed  Hooker, 
as  they  trotted  briskly  down  the  lane.  "Leave  'im 


to  me." 


64  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"It'll  only  make  him  mad,"  objected  De  Lancey 
crossly.  "What  do  you  want  to  do  that  for?" 

"He's  mad  already,"  answered  Bud.  "I  want 
to  quarrel  with  him,  so  he  can't  ask  us  any  ques 
tions.  Get  him  so  mad  he  won't  talk — then  it'll 
be  a  fair  fight  and  none  of  this  snake-in-the-grass 
business." 

"Yes,  but  don't  put  it  on  him,"  protested  De 
Lancey.  "Let  him  be  friendly  for  a  while,  if  he 


wants  to." 


"Can't  be  friends,"  said  Bud  laconically;  "we 
jumped  his  claim." 

"Maybe  he  doesn't  want  it,"  suggested  Phil  hope 
fully.  "He's  dropped  a  lot  of  money  on  it." 

"You  bet  he  wants  it,"  returned  Hooker,  with 
conviction.  "I'm  going  to  camp  out  there — the 
old  boy  is  liable  to  jump  us." 

"Aw,  you're  crazy,  Bud!"  cried  Phil;  but  Hooker 
only  smiled. 

"You  know  what  happened  to  Kruger,"  he  an 
swered.  "I'll  tell  you  what,  we  got  to  keep  our 
eye  open  around  here." 

They  rode  on  to  their  mine,  which  was  only  about 
five  miles  from  Fortuna,  without  discussing  the  mat 
ter  further;  for,  while  Phil  had  generally  been  the 
leader,  in  this  particular  case  Kruger  had  put  Bud 
in  charge,  and  he  seemed  determined  to  have  his 
way  so  far  as  Aragon  was  concerned.  In  the  order 
ing  of  supplies  and  the  laying  out  of  development 
work  he  deferred  to  Phil  in  everything,  but  for  tac 
tics  he  preferred  his  own  judgment. 

It  was  by  instinct  rather  than  reason  that  he 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  65 

chose  to  fight,  and  people  who  follow  their  instincts 
are  hard  to  change.  So  they  put  in  the  day  in 
making  careful  measurements,  according  to  the 
memoranda  that  Kruger  had  given  them;  and, 
having  satisfied  themselves  as  to  the  approximate 
locality  of  the  lost  vein,  they  turned  back  again 
toward  town  with  their  heads  full  of  cunning 
schemes. 

Since  it  was  the  pleasure  of  the  Senor  Aragon  to 
make  war  on  all  who  entered  his  preserves,  they 
checkmated  any  attempt  on  his  part  to  locate  the 
lead  by  driving  stakes  to  the  north  of  their  ledge; 
and,  still  further  to  throw  him  off,  they  decided  to 
mark  time  for  a  while  by  doing  dead  work  on  a  cut. 
Such  an  approach  would  be  needed  to  reach  the 
mouth  of  their  tunnel. 

At  the  same  time  it  would  give  steady  employ 
ment  to  Mendez  and  keep  him  under  their  eye,  and 
as  soon  as  Aragon  showed  his  hand  they  could  make 
out  their  final  papers  in  peace  and  send  them  to  the 
City  of  Mexico. 

And  not  until  those  final  papers  were  recorded 
and  the  transfer  duly  made  would  they  so  much  as 
stick  a  pick  into  the  hill-side  or  show  a  lump  of 
quartz. 

But  for  a  Spanish  gentleman,  supposed  to  be  all 
supple  curves  and  sinuous  advance,  Don  Cipriano 
turned  out  somewhat  of  a  surprise,  for  when  they 
rode  back  through  his  narrow  street  again  he  met 
them  squarely  in  the  road  and  called  them  to  a  halt. 

"By  what  right,  gentlemen—  "  he  demanded  in  a 
voice  tremulous  with  rage, — "by  what  right  do 


66  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

you  take  possession  of  my  mine,  upon  which  I 
have  paid  the  taxes  all  these  years,  and  conspire 
with  that  rogue,  Cruz  Mendez,  to  cheat  me  out  of 
it?  It  is  mine,  I  tell  you,  no  matter  what  the 
agente  mineral  may  say,  and— 

"Your  mine,  nothing !"  broke  in  Hooker  scorn 
fully,  speaking  in  the  ungrammatical  border-Mex 
ican  of  the  cowboys.  "We  meet  one  Mexican — he 
shows  us  the  mine — that  is  all.  The  expert  of  the 
mining  agent  says  it  is  vacant — we  take  it.  Sta- 


wano!"  * 


He  waved  the  matter  aside  with  masterful  in 
difference,  and  Aragon  burst  into  a  torrent  of 
excited  Spanish. 

"Very  likely,  very  likely/'  commented  Bud  dryly, 
without  listening  to  a  word;  "j{,  senor^  yo  pienso!" 

A  wave  of  fury  swept  over  the  Spaniard's  face  at 
this  gibe  and  he  turned  suddenly  to  De  Lancey. 

"S^nor,"  he  said,  "you  seem  to  be  a  gentleman. 
Perhaps  you  will  listen  to  me.  This  mine  upon 
which  you  are  working  is  mine.  I  have  held  it 
for  years,  seeking  for  the  lost  vein  of  the  old  padres. 
Then  the  rebels  came  sweeping  through  the  land. 
They  stole  my  horses,  they  drove  off  my  cattle,  they 
frightened  my  workmen  from  the  mine.  I  was 
compelled  to  flee — myself  and  my  family — to  keep 
from  being  held  for  ransom.  Now  you  do  me  the 
great  injustice  to  seize  my  mine!" 

"Ah,  no,  senor"  protested   De  Lancey,  waving 


*  A  shortening  of  esld  bueno — it  is  good — a  common  expression 
in  cowboy  Spanish. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  67 

his  finger  politely  for  silence,  "you  are  mistaken. 
We  have  inquired  about  this  mine  and  it  has  been 
vacant  for  some  time.  There~is  no  vein — no  gold. 
Anyone  who  wished  could  take  it.  While  we  were 
prospecting  we  met  this  poor  one-eyed  man  and  he 
has  taken  out  a  permit  to  explore  it.  So  we  are 
going  to  dig — that  is  all." 

"But,  senor!"  burst  out  Aragon — and  he  voiced 
his  rabid  protests  again,  while  sudden  faces  appeared 
in  the  windows  and  wide-eyed  peons  stood  gawking 
in  a  crowd.  But  De  Lancey  was  equally  firm, 
though  he  glimpsed  for  the  first  time  the  adorable 
face  of  La  Gracia  as  she  stared  at  him  from  behind 
the  bars. 

"No,  senor,"  he  said,  "you  are  mistaken.  The 
land  was  declared  forfeit  for  non-payment  of  taxes 
by  the  minister  of  Fomento  and  thrown  open  for 
location.  We  have  located  it — that  is  all." 

For  a  minute  Don  Cipriano  stood  looking  at  him, 
his  black  eyes  heavy  with  rage;  then  his  anger 
seemed  to  fall  away  from  him  and  he  wiped  the 
sweat  from  his  brow. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  perceive  that 
you  are  a  gentleman  and  have  acted  in  good  faith — 
it  is  only  that  that  fellow  Mendez  has  deceived  you. 
Let  it  pass,  then — I  will  not  quarrel  with  you,  my 
friend — it  is  the  fortune  of  war.  But  stop  at  my 
store  when  you  go  by  and  come  and  see  me.  It  is 
indeed  lonely  here  at  times,  and  perhaps  I  can  pass 
a  pleasant  hour  with  you.  My  name,  senor,  is  Don 
Cipriano  Aragon  y  Tres  Palacios — and  yours?" 

He  held  out  his  hand  with  a  little  gesture. 


68  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Philip  De  Lancey,"  replied  that  gentleman, 
clasping  the  proffered  hand;  and  with  many  expres 
sions  of  good-will  and  esteem,  with  a  touching  of 
hats  and  a  wriggling  of  fingers  from  the  distance,  they 
parted,  in  spite  of  Bud,  apparently  the  best  of 
friends. 


VIII 

THERE  are  some  people  in  this  world  with 
whom  it  seems  impossible  to  quarrel,  notably 
the  parents  of  attractive  daughters. 

Perhaps,  if  Gracia  Aragon  had  not  been  watching 
him  from  the  window,  Philip  De  Lancey  would 
not  have  been  quite  so  cordial  with  her  father — at 
least,  that  was  what  Hooker  thought,  and  he  was 
so  badly  peeved  at  the  way  things  had  gone  that  he 
said  it,  too. 

Then,  of  course,  they  quarreled,  and  one  thing 
leading  to  another,  Phil  told  Bud  he  had  a  very  low 
way  of  speaking.  Bud  replied,  that  whatever  his 
deficiencies  of  speech  might  be,  he  was  not  fool 
enough  to  be  drawn  in  by  a  skirt,  and  Phil  rebuked 
him  again.  Then,  with  a  scornful  grunt,  Bud 
Hooker  rode  on  in  silence  and  they  said  no  more 
about  it. 

It  was  a  gay  life  that  they  led  at  night,  for  the 
Fortuna  Hotel  was  filled  with  men  of  their  kind, 
since  all  the  staid  married  men  had  either  moved 
across  the  line  with  their  families  or  were  under 
orders  to  come  straight  home. 

In  the  daytime  the  hotel  was  nearly  deserted,  for 
every  man  in  town  was  working  for  the  company; 
but  in  the  evening,  when  they  gathered  around  the 
massive  stove,  it  was  a  merry  company  indeed. 

69 


70  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

There  were  college  men,  full  of  good  stones  and 
stories  not  so  good,  world-wanderers  and  adven 
turers  with  such  tales  of  the  East  and  West  as  never 
have  been  written  in  books.  But  not  a  college  boy 
could  match  stories  with  Phil  De  Lancey,  and  few 
wanderers  there  were  who  could  tell  him  anything 
new  about  Mexico.  Also,  when  it  came  to  popular 
songs,  he  knew  both  the  words  and  the  tune.  So 
he  was  much  in  demand,  and  Don  Juan  passed 
many  drinks  across  the  bar  because  of  him. 

In  all  such  festivities  the  two  pardners  stayed 
together;  Bud,  with  a  broad,  indulgent  grin,  listen 
ing  to  the  end,  and  Phil,  his  eyes  alight  with  liquor 
and  good  cheer,  talking  and  laughing  far  into  the 
night. 

Outside  the  winter  winds  were  still  cold  and  the 
Mexicans  went  wrapped  to  the  eyebrows;  but  within 
the  merry  company  was  slow  to  quit,  and  Phil, 
making  up  for  the  lonely  months  when  he  had 
entirely  lacked  an  audience,  sat  long  in  the  seat  of 
honor  and  was  always  the  last  to  go. 
i  But  on  the  evening  after  their  spat  Bud  sat  off 
to  one  side,  and  even  Phil's  sprightly  and  ventrilo- 
quistic  conversation  with  the-little-girl-behind-the- 
door  called,  forth  only  a  fleeting  smile. 

Bud  was  thinking,  and  when  engaged  in  that 
arduous  occupation  even  the  saucy  little  girl  behind 
the  door  could  not  beguile  him. 

But,  after  he  had  studied  it  all  out  and  come  to  a 
definite  conclusion,  he  did  not  deliver  an  ultimatum. 
The  old,  good-natured  smile  simply  came  back  to 
his  rugged  face;  he  rolled  a  cigarette;  and  them 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  71 

for  the  rest  of  the  evening  he  lay  back  and  enjoyed 
the  show.  Only  in  the  morning,  when  they  went  out 
to  the  corral  to  get  their  horses,  he  carried  his  war- 
bag  with  him  and,  after  throwing  the  saddle  on 
Copper  Bottom,  he  did  the  same  for  their  spare 
mount. 

"What  are  you  going  to  pack  out,  Bud?"  inquired 
Phil,  and  Bud  slapped  his  canvas-covered  bed  for  an 
answer.  Then,  with  a  heave,  he  snaked  it  out  of  the 
harness-room  where  it  had  been  stored  and  slung 
it  deftly  across  the  pack-saddle. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  said  De  Lancey,  when 
they  were  on  their  way.  "Don't  you  like  the  hotel?" 

"Hotel's  fine,"  conceded  Bud,  "but  I  reckon  I'd 
better  camp  out  at  the  mine.  Want  to  keep  my 
eye  on  that  Mexican  of  ours." 

"Aw,  he's  all  right,"  protested  Phil. 

"Sure,"  said  Bud;  "I  ain't  afraid  he'll  steal 
something — but  he  might  take  a  notion  to  quit  the 
country." 

"Why,  what  for? "  challenged  De  Lancey.  "He's 
got  his  wife  and  family  here." 

"That's  nothing — to  a  Mexican!"  countered 
Bud.  "But  I  ain't  figuring  on  the  excuse  he'd  give 
— that  won't  buy  me  nothing — what  I  want  to  do  is 
to  keep  him  from  going.  Because  if  we  lose  that  Mex 
now,  we  lose  our  mine." 

"And—" 

"No  'and'  to  it,"  said  Bud  doggedly.  "We 
ain't  going  to  lose  him." 

"But  if  we  did,"  persisted  De  Lancey,  "why, 
then  you  think — " 


72  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Your  friend  would  get  it,"  finished  Hooker 
grimly. 

"Ah,  I  see,"  nodded  De  Lancey,  noting  the  accent 
on  "friend."  "You  don't  approve  of  my  making 
friends  with  Aragon." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  shrugged  the  big  cowboy. 
"It  won't  make  no  difference  now.  Go  ahead,  if 
you  want  to." 

"You  mean  you  can  get  along  without  me?" 

"No,"  answered  Bud.  "I  don't  mean  nothing — 
except  what  I  say.  If  you  want  to  palaver  around 
with  Aragon,  go  to  it.  I'll  round  up  Mendez  and 
his  family  and  keep  'em  right  there  at  the  mine  until 
we  get  them  papers  signed — after  that  I  don't  care 
what  happens." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  murmured  De  Lancey  in  a  sub 
dued  tone;  but  if  his  conscience  smote  him  for  the 
moment  it  did  not  lead  to  the  making  of  any  senti 
mental  New  Year's  resolutions,  for  he  stopped  when 
he  came  to  the  store  and  exchanged  salutations 
with  Aragon,  who  was  lounging  expectantly  before 
his  door. 

"Buenos  dias,  Don  Cipriano!"  he  hailed.  "How 
are  you  this  morning?" 

"Ah,  good  morning,  Don  Felipe,"  responded 
Aragon,  stepping  forth  from  the  shadow  of  the  door. 
"I  am  very  well,  thank  you — and  you?" 

"The  same!"  answered  Phil,  as  if  it  were  a  great 
piece  of  news.  "It  is  fine  weather — no?" 

"Yes,  but  a  little  dry,"  said  Aragon,  and  so 
they  passed  it  back  and  forth  in  the  accepted  Span 
ish  manner,  while  Bud  hooked  one  leg  over  the  horn 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  73 

of  his  saddle  and  regarded  the  hacienda  with  languid 
eyes. 

But  as  his  gaze  swept  the  length  of  the  vine- 
covered  corrector  it  halted  for  a  moment  and  a  slow 
smile  came  over  his  face.  In  the  green  depths  of 
a  passion-flower  vine  he  had  detected  a  quick,  bird- 
like  motion;  and  then  suddenly,  like  a  transforma 
tion  scene,  he  beheld  a  merry  face,  framed  and 
illuminated  by  soft,  golden  locks,  peering  out  at 
him  from  among  the  blossoms.  Except  for  that 
brief  smile  he  made  no  sign  that  he  saw  her,  and 
when  he  looked  up  again  the  face  had  disappeared. 

Don  Cipriano  showed  them  about  his  mescal 
plant,  where  his  men  kept  a  continual  stream  of 
liquid  fire  running  from  the  copper  worm,  and  gave 
each  a  raw  drink;  but  though  De  Lancey  gazed 
admiringly  at  the  house  and  praised  the  orange- 
trees  that  hung  over  the  garden  wall,  Spanish 
hospitality  could  go  no  farther,  and  the  visit  ended 
in  a  series  of  adioses  and  muchas  graciases. 

" Quick  work!"  commented  Phil,  as  they  rode 
toward  the  mine.  "The  old  man  has  got  over  his 
grouch." 

"Um,"  mused  Bud,  with  a  quiet,  brooding  smile; 
and  the  next  time  he  rode  into  town  he  looked  for 
the  masked  face  among  the  flowers  and  smiled  again. 
That  was.  the  way  Gracia  Aragon  affected  them  all. 

He  did  not  point  out  the  place  to  Phil,  nor  betray 
her  by  any  sign.  All  he  did  was  to  glance  at  her 
once  and  then  ride  on  his  way,  but  somehow  his 
heart  stood  still  when  he  met  her  eyes,  and  his  days 
became  filled  with  a  pensive,  brooding  melancholy. 


74  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"What's  the  matter,  Bud?"  rallied  Phil,  after  he 
had  jollied  him  for  a  week.  "You're  getting  mighty 
quiet  lately.  Got  another  hunch — like  that  one 
you  had  up  at  Agua  Negra?" 

"Nope/'  grinned  Bud;  "but  I'll  tell  you  one 
thing — if  old  Aragon  don't  spring  something  pretty 
soon  I'm  going  to  get  uneasy.  He's  too  dog-goned 
good-natured  about  this," 

"Maybe  he  thinks  we're  stuck,"  suggested  De 
Lancey. 

"Well,  he's  awful  happy  about  something,"  said 
Bud.  "I  can  see  by  the  way  he  droops  that  game 
eye  of  his — and  smiles  that  way — that  he  knows 
we're  working  for  him.  If  we  don't  get  a  title  to  this 
mine,  every  tap  of  work  we  do  on  it  is  all  to  the  good 
for  him,  that's  a  cinch.  So  sit  down  now  and  think 
it  out — where's  the  joker?" 

"Well,"  mused  Phil,  "the  gold  is  here  somewhere. 
He  knows  we're  not  fooled  there.  And  he  knows 
we're  right  after  it,  the  way  we're  driving  this  cut 
in.  Our  permit  is  good — he  hasn't  tried  to  buffalo 
Mendez — and  it's  a  cinch  he  can't  denounce  the 
claim  himself." 

"Maybe  he  figures  on  letting  us  do  all  the  work 
and  pay  all  the  denouncement  fees  and  then  spring 
something  big  on  old  One-Eye,"  propounded  Bud. 
"Scare  'im  up  or  buy  'im  off,  and  have  him 
transfer  the  title  to  him.  That's  the  way  he  worked 
Kruger." 

"Well,  say,"  urged  Phil,  "let's  go  ahead  with 
our  denouncement  before  he  starts  something. 
Besides,  the  warm  weather  is  coming  on  now,  and 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  75 

if  we  don't  get  a  move  on  we're  likely  to  get  run  out 
by  the  revoltosos." 

"Nope,"  said  Bud;  "I  don't  put  this  into  Men- 
dez's  hands  until  I  know  he's  our  man — and  if  I 
ever  do  go  ahead  I'll  keep  him  under  my  six-shooter 
until  the  last  paper  is  signed,  believe  me.  I  know 
we're  in  bad  somewhere,  but  hurrying  up  won't 
help  none. 

"Now  €  tell  you  what  we'll  do — you  go  to  the 
mining  agent  and  get  copies  of  all  our  papers  and 
send  them  up  to  that  Gadsden  lawyer.  I'm  going 
to  go  down  and  board  with  Mendez  and  see  if  I 
can  read  his  heart." 

So  they  separated,  and  while  Phil  stayed  in  town 
to  look  over  the  records  Bud  ate  his  beans  and 
tortillas  with  the  Mendez  family. 

They  were  a  happy  little  family,  comfortably 
installed  in  the  stone  house  that  Mendez  had  built, 
and  rapidly  getting  fat  on  three  full  meals  a  day. 
From  his  tent  farther  up  the  canon  Bud  could  look 
down  and  watch  the  children  at  play  and  see  the 
comely  Indian  wife  as  she  cooked  by  the  open  fire. 

Certainly  no  one  could  be  more  innocent  and 
contented  than  she  was,  and  El  Tuerto  was  all 
bows  and  protestations  of  gratitude.  And  yet, 
you  never  can  tell. 

Bud  ha$  moved  out  of  the  new  house  to  furnish 
quarters  for  El  Tuerto  and  had  favored  him  in  every 
way;  but  this  same  consideration  might  easily  be 
misinterpreted,  for  the  Mexicans  are  slow  to  under 
stand  kindness. 

So,  while  on  the  one  hand  he  had  treated  them 


76  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

generously,  he  had  always  kept  his  distance,  lest 
they  be  tempted  to  presume.  But  now,  with  Phil 
in  town  for  a  few  days,  he  took  his  meals  with  Maria, 
who  was  too  awed  to  say  a  word,  and  made  friends 
with  the  dogs  and  the  children. 

The  way  to  the  dog's  heart  was  easy,  almost 
direct,  and  he  finally  won  the  attention  of  little 
Pancho  and  Josefa  with  a  well-worn  Sunday  supple 
ment.  This  gaudy  institution,  with  its  spicy  stories 
and  startling  illustrations,  had  penetrated  even  to 
the  wilds  of  Sonora,  and  every  Sunday  as  regularly 
as  the  paper  came  Bud  sat  down  and  had  his  laugh 
over  the  funny  page. 

But  to  Pancho,  who  was  six  years  old  and  curious, 
this  same  highly  colored  sheet  was  a  mystery  of 
mysteries,  and  when  he  saw  the  big  American  laugh 
ing  he  crept  up  and  looked  at  it  wistfully. 

"  Mira,"  said  Bud,  laying  his  finger  upon  the 
smirking  visage  of  one  of  the  comic  characters, 
"look,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  story." 

And  so,  with  laborious  care,  he  translated  the 
colored  fun,  while  the  little  Mendezes  squirmed  with 
excitement  and  leaped  with  joy.  Even  the  simple 
souls  of  El  Tuerto  and  Maria  were  moved  the  by 
comicas,  and  Mendez  became  so  interested  that  he 
learned  the  words  by  heart,  the  better  to  explain 
them  to  others. 

But  as  for  Mexican  treachery,  Bud  could  find 
none  of  it.  In  fact,  finding  them  so  simple-hearted 
and  good-natured,  he  became  half  ashamed  of  his 
early  suspicions  and  waited  for  the  return  of  Phil 
to  explain  Don  Cipriano's  complacency. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  77 

But  the  next  Sunday,  as  Bud  lay  reading  in  his 
tent,  the  mystery  solved  itself.  Cruz  Mendez  came 
up  from  the  house,  hat  in  hand  and  an  apologetic 
smile  on  his  face,  and  after  the  customary  rounda 
bout  remarks  he  asked  the  boss  as  a  favor  if  he  would 
lend  him  the  page  of  comic  pictures. 

"  Seguro!"  assented  Bud,  rolling  over  and  fumbling 
for  the  funny  sheet;  then,  failing  to  find  it  instantly, 
he  inquired:  "What  do  you  want  it  for?" 

"Ah,  to  show  to  my  boy!"  explained  El  Tuerto, 
his  one  eye  lighting  up  with  pride. 

"Who— Pancho?" 

"Ah,  no,  senor,"  answered  Mendez  simply, 
"my  boy  in  La  Fortuna,  the  one  you  have  not 


seen." 


Bud  stopped  fumbling  for  the  paper  and  sat  up 
suddenly.  Here  was  a  new  light  on  their  faithful 
servitor,  and  one  that  might  easily  take  away  from 
his  value  as  a  dummy  locator. 

"Oh!"  he  said,  and  then:  "How  many  children 
have  you,  Cruz?" 

Cruz  smiled  deprecatingly,  as  parents  will,,  and 
turned  away. 

"By  which  woman?"  he  inquired,  and  Bud 
became  suddenly  very  calm,  fearing  the  worst.  For 
if  Cruz  was  not  legally  married  to  Maria,  he  could 
not  transfer  the  mining  claim. 

"By  all  of  them,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Five  in  all,"  returned  Cruz — "three  by  Maria, 
as  you  know — two  by  my  first  woman — and  one 
other.  I  do  not  count  him." 

"Well,  you  one-eyed  old   reprobate!"   muttered 


7«  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

Bud  in  his  throat,  but  he  passed  it  off  and  returned 
smiling  to  the  charge. 

"Where  does  your  boy  live  now?"  he  asked  with 
flattering  solicitude,  the  better  to  make  him  talk, 
"and  is  he  old  enough  to  understand  the  pictures?" 

"Ah,  yes!"  beamed  Mendez,  "he  is  twelve 
years  old.  He  lives  with  his  mother  now — and 
my  little  daughter,  too.  Their  mama  is  the  woman 
of  the  mayordomo  of  the  Senor  Aragon — a  bad  man, 
very  ugly — she  is  not  married  to  him" 

"But  with  you — "  suggested  Bud,  regarding  him 
with  a  steely  stare. 

"Only  by  the  judge!"  explained  Mendez  vir 
tuously.  "It  was  a  love-match  and  the  priest  did 
not  come — so  we  were  married  by  the  judge.  Then 
this  bad  mayordomo  stole  her  away  from  me — the 
pig — and  I  married  Maria  instead.  Maria  is  a 
good  woman  and  I  married  her  before  the  priest — 
but  I  love  my  other  children  too,  even  though  they 
are  not  lawful." 

"So  you  married  }^our  first  wife  before  the  judge," 
observed  Bud  cynically,  "  and  this  one  before  the 
priest.  But  how  could  you  do  that,  unless  you 
had  been  divorced?" 

"Ah,  senor,"  protested  Mendez,  holding  out  his 
hands,  "you  do  not  understand.  It  is  only  the 
church  that  can  really  marry — the  judge  does  it  only 
for  the  money.  Maria  is  my  true  wife — and  we 
have  three  nice  children — but  as  I  am  going  through 
La  Fortuna  I  should  like  to  show  the  picture  paper 
to  my  boy." 

Bud  regarded  him  in  meditative  silence,  then  he 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  79 

rose  up  and  began  a  determined  search  for  the 
funny  sheet. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  handing  it  over,  "and  here 
is  a  panoche  of  sugar  for  your  little  girl — the  one 
in  La  Fortuna.  It  is  nothing,"  he  added,  as  Men- 
dez  began  his  thanks. 

"But  oh,  you  marrying  Mexican,"  he  continued, 
relapsing  into  his  mother  tongue  as  El  Tuerto 
disappeared;  "you  certainly  have  dished  us  right!'* 


IX 


NOT  the  least  of  the  causes  which  have  brought 
Mexico  to  the  brink  of  the  abyss  is  the 
endless  quarrel  between  church  and  state, 
which  has  almost  destroyed  the  sanctity  of  marriage 
and    left,    besides,    a    pitiful    heritage    of   deserted 
women  and  fatherless  children  as  its  toll. 

Many  an  honest  laborer  has  peoned  himself  to 
pay  the  priest  for  his  marriage,  only  to  be  told  that 
it  is  not  legal  in  the  eyes  of  the  law;  and  many 
another,  married  by  the  judge,  has  been  gravely 
informed  by  the  padre  that  the  woman  is  only  his 
mistress,  and  the  children  born  out  of  wedlock. 

So  that  now,  to  be  sure  that  she  is  wedded,  a 
woman  must  be  married  twice,  and  many  a  couple, 
on  account  of  the  prohibitive  fees,  are  never  married 
at  all. 

Cruz  Mendez  was  no  different  from  the  men  of  his 
class,  and  he  believed  honestly  that  he  was  married 
to  the  comely  Maria;  but  Hooker  could  have  en 
lightened  him  on  that  point  if  he  had  cared  to  do  it. 

Bud  was  playing  a  game,  with  the  Eagle  Tail 
mine  for  a  stake;  and,  being  experienced  at  poker, 
he  stood  pat  and  studied  his  hand.  Without  doubt 
Mendez  had  lost  his  usefulness  as  a  locator  of  the 
mine,  since  Maria  was  not  his  legal  wife  and  could 
not  sign  the  transfer  papers  as  such.  According  to 

So 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  81 

the  law  of  the  land,  the  woman  now  living  with 
Aragon's  mayordomo  was  the  "legitimate"  wife  of 
the  contract,  and  she  alone  could  release  the  title 
to  the  mine  once  Mendez  denounced  the  claim. 

But  Mendez  had  not  yet  denounced  the  claim — 
though  for  a  period  of  some  thirty  days  yet  he  had 
the  exclusive  privilege  of  doing  so — and  Bud  did 
not  intend  that  he  should. 

Meanwhile  they  must  walk  softly,  leaving  Aragon 
still  to  hug  the  delusion  that  he  would  soon,  through 
his  mayordomo,  have  them  in  his  power — and  when 
the  full  sixty  days  of  Cruz  Mendez's  mining  permit 
had  expired  they  could  locate  the  mine  again. 

But  how — and  through  whom?  That  was  the 
question  that  Bud  was  studying  upon  when  Phil 
rode  up  the  trail,  and  in  his  abstraction  he  barely 
returned  his  gay  greeting. 

"Well,  cheer  up,  old  top!"  cried  De  Lancey, 
throwing  his  bridle-reins  to  the  ground  and  striding 
up  to  the  tent.  "What  ho,  let  down  the  port 
cullis,  me  lord  seneschal!  And  cease  your  vain 
repining,  Algernon — our  papers  are  all  O.  K.  and  the 
lawyer  says  to  go  ahead.  But  that  isn't  half  the 
news!  Say,  we  had  a  dance  up  at  the  hotel  last 
night  and  I  met — " 

"Yes — sure  you  did,"  broke  in  Bud;  "but  listen 
to  this!"  And  he  told  him  of  El  Tuerto's  matri 
monial  entanglements. 

"Why,  the  crooked  devil!"  exclaimed  De  Lancey, 
leaping  up  at  the  finish.  "Oyez!  Mendez!" 

"Don't  say  a  word,"  warned  Bud,  springing  to 
the  tent  door  to  intercept  him,  "or  you'll  put  us  out 


82  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

of  business!  It  is  nothing,"  he  continued  in  Span 
ish  as  Mendez  came  out  of  his  house,  "but  put  Don 
Felipe's  horse  in  the  corral  when  he  is  cool." 

"Si,  senor — with  great  pleasure!"  smirked  Men 
dez,  running  to  get  the  horse,  and  after  he  had 
departed  Bud  turned  back  and  shook  his  head. 

"We  can't  afford  to  quarrel  with  Mr.  Mendez," 
he  said;  "because  if  Aragon  ever  gets  hold  of  him 
we're  ditched.  Jest  let  everything  run  on  like  we'd 
overlooked  something  until  the  sixty  days  are  up — 
then,  if  we  get  away  with  it,  we'll  locate  the  mine 
ourselves." 

"Yes;  but  how?" 

"Well,  die's  two  ways,"  returned  Bud;  "either 
hunt  up  another  Mexican  citizen  or  turn  Mexican 
ourselves." 

"Turn  Mexican!"  shrilled  Phil,  and  then  he  broke 
down  and  laughed.  "Well,  you're  a  great  one, 
Bud,"  he  chortled;  "you  sure  are!  ' 

"I  come  down  here  to  get  this  mine,"  said  Bud 
laconically. 

"Yes,  but  you're  a  Texan — or  was  one!" 

"That  makes  no  difference,"  answered  Bud 
stoutly.  "The  hot  weather  is  coming  on — revolu 
tion  is  likely  to  begin  any  time — and  there  ain't 
a  single  Mexican  we  can  trust.  Jest  one  more 
break  now  and  we  lose  out — now  how  about  it?" 

"Who's  going  to  turn  Mexican,"  questioned 
De  Lancey,  "you  or  me?" 

"Well— /will,  then!" 

"No,  you  won't,  either!"  cried  Phil,  forgetting 
his  canny  shrewdness.  "I'll  do  it  myself!  I'm 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  83 

half  Mexican  already,  I've  been  eating  chili  so 
long!" 

"Now  here,"  began  Bud,  "listen  to  me.  I've 
been  thinking  this  over  all  day  and  you  jest  heard 
about  it.  The  man  that  turns  Mexican  is  likely  to 
get  mixed  up  with  the  authorities  and  have  to  skip 
the  country,  but  the  other  feller  is  in  the  other  way — 
he's  got  to  stay  with  the  works  till  hell  freezes 
over. 

"Now  you're  an  engineer  and  you  know  how  to 
open  up  a  mine — I  don't.  So,  if  you  say  so,  I'll 
take  out  the  papers  and  you  hold  the  mine — or 
if  you  want  to  you  can  turn  Mex." 

"Weil,"  said  De  Lancey,  his  voice  suddenly 
becoming  soft  and  pensive,  "I  might  as  well  tell 
you,  Bud,  that  I'm  thinking  of  settling  in  this  coun 
try,  anyway.  Of  course,  I  don't  look  at  Aragon  the 
way  you  do — I  think  you  are  prejudiced  and  mis 
judge  him — but  ever  since  I've  known  Gracia 
I've—" 

"Gracia!"  repeated  Bud;  and  then,  stirred  by 
some  great  and  unreasoning  anger,  he  rose  up  and 
threw  down  his  hat  pettishly.  "I'd  think,  Phil," 
he  muttered,  "you'd  be  satisfied  with  all  the  other 
girls  in  the  world  without— 

"Now  here!"  shouted  Phil,  rising  as  unreason- 
ingly  to  his  feet,  "don't  you  say  another  word 
against  that  girl,  or  I'll— 

"Shut  your  mouth,  you  little  shrimp!"  bellowed 
Bud,  wheeling  upon  him  menacingly.  "You  seem 
to  think  you're  the  only  man  in  the  world  that — 

"Oh,  slush,  Bud!"  cried  Phil  in  disgust.     "You 


84  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

don't  mean  to  tell  me  you're  in  love  with  Gracia 
too!" 

"Who — me?"  demanded  Hooker,  his  face  sud 
denly  becoming  fixed  and  mask-like;  and  then  he 
laughed  hoarsely  in  derision  and  sank  down  on  the 
bed. 

Certainly,  of  the  two  of  them,  he  was  the  more  sur 
prised  at  his  sudden  outbreak  of  passion;  and  yet 
when  the  words  were  spoken  he  was  quick  to  know 
that  they  were  true. 

Undoubtedly,  in  his  own  way,  he  was  in  love — 
but  he  would  never  admit  it,  that  he  knew,  too. 
So  he  sank  down  on  the  blankets  and  swore  harshly, 
while  De  Lancey  stared  at  him  in  unfeigned  surprise. 

"Well,  then,"  he  went  on,  taking  Bud's  answer 
for  granted,  "what  're  you  making  such  a  row  about? 
Can't  I  go  to  a  dance  with  a  girl  without  you  jump 
ing  down  my  throat?" 

"W'y,  sure  you  can!"  rumbled  Bud,  now  hot  with 
a  new  indignation.  "But  after  getting  me  to  go  into 
this  deal  against  my  will  and  swearing  me  to  some 
damn-fool  pledge,  the  first  thing  you  do  is  to  make 
friends  with  Aragon  and  then  make  love  to  his 
daughter.  Is  that  your  idea  of  helping  things 
along?  D'ye  think  that's  the  way  a  pardner 
ought  to  act?  No,  I  tell  you,  it  is  not!" 

"Aw,  Bud,"  protested  De  Lancey  plaintively, 
"what's  the  matter  with  you?  Be  reasonable, 
old  man;  I  never  meant  to  hurt  your  feelings!" 

"Hurt  my  feelings!"  echoed  Hooker  scornfully. 
"Huh,  what  are  we  down  here  for,  anyway — a 
Sunday-school  picnic?  My  feelings  are  nothing, 


THE   DESERT   TRAIL  85 

and  they  can  wait;  but  we're  sitting  on  a  mine  that's 
worth  a  million  dollars  mebbe — and  it  ain't  ours, 
either — and  when  you  throw  in  with  old  Aragon 
and  go  to  making  love  to  his  daughter  you  know 
you're  not  doing  right!  That's  all  there  is  to  it — 
you're  doing  me  and  Kruger  dirt!" 

"Well,  Bud,"  said  De  Lancey  with  mock  gravity, 
"if  that's  the  way  you  feel  about  it  I  won't  do  it 
any  more!" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  breathed  Bud,  raising 
his  head  from  his  hands;  "it  sure  wears  me  out, 
Phil,  worrying  about  it." 

"Well,  then,  I  won't  do  it,"  protested  Phil  sin 
cerely.  "So  that's  settled — now  who's  going  to 
turn  Mexican  citizen?" 

"Suit  yourself,"  said  Bud  listlessly. 

"I'll  match  you  for  it!"  proposed  De  Lancey, 
diving  into  his  pocket  for  money. 

"Don't  need  to,"  responded  Bud;  "you  can  do 
what  you  please." 

"No;  I'll  match  you!"  persisted  Phil.  "That 
was  the  agreement — whenever  it  was  an  even  break 
we'd  let  the  money  talk.  Here's  your  quarter — 
and  if  I  match  you  I'll  become  the  Mexican  citizen. 
All  set?  Let 'ergo!" 

He  flipped  the  coin  into  the  air  and  caught  it  in 
his  hand. 

"Heads!"  he  called,  without  looking  at  it.  "What 
you  got?" 

"Heads!"  answered  Bud,  and  Phil  chucked  his 
money  into  the  air  again  and  laughed  as  it  dropped 
into  his  palm. 


86  THE   DESERT  TRAIL 

"Heads  she  is  again!"  he  cried,  showing  the  Mex 
ican  eagle.  "  I  never  did  see  the  time  when  I  couldn't 
match  you,  anyway.  So  now,  old  socks,  you  can 
keep  right  on  being  a  Texan  and  hating  Mexicans 
like  horny  toads,  and  I'll  denounce  the  Eagle  Tail 
the  minute  the  time  is  up.  And  I  won't  go  near 
the  Aragon  outfit  unless  you're  with  me — is  that  a 
go?  All  right,  shake  hands  on  it,  pard!  I  wouldn't 
quarrel  with  you  for  anything!" 

"Aw,  that's  all  right,"  mumbled  Bud,  rising  and 
holding  out  his  hand.  "I  knowed  you  didn't  mean 
nothing."  He  sat  down  again  after  that  and  gazed 
drearily  out  the  door. 

"Say,  Bud,"  began  Phil,  his  eyes  sparkling  with 
amusement,  "I've  got  something  to  tell  you  about 
that  dance  last  night.  If  I  didn't  put  the  crusher 
on  Mr.  Feliz  Luna  and  Manuel  del  Rey!  Wow! 
I  sure  wished  you  were  there  to  see  me  do  it. 

"This  Feliz  Luna  is  the  son  of  an  old  sugar- 
planter  down  in  the  hot  country  somewhere.  He 
got  run  out  by  the  revoltosos  and  now  he's  up  here 
trying  to  make  a  winning  with  Gracia  Aragon — • 
uniting  two  noble  familes,  and  all  that  junk.  Well, 
sir,  of  all  the  conceited,  swelled-up  little  squirts  you 
ever  saw  in  your  life  he's  the  limit,  and  yet  the  old 
man  kind  of  favors  him. 

"But  this  Manuel  del  Rey  is  the  captain  of  the 
rurales  around  here  and  a  genuine  Mexican  fire-eater 
— all  buckskin  and  fierce  mustachios,  and  smells 
like  chili  peppers  and  garlic — and  the  two  of  'em 
were  having  it  back  and  forth  as  to  who  got  the 
next  dance  with  Gracia. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  87 

"Well,  you  know  how  it  is  at  a  Mexican  dance — 
everybody  is  supposed  to  be  introduced  to  every 
body  else — and  when  I  saw  those  two  young  turkey- 
cocks  talking  with  their  hands  and  eyebrows  and 
everybody  else  backing  off,  I  stepped  in  close  and 
looked  at  the  girl. 

"And  she's  some  girl,  too,  believe  me!  The  biggest 
brown  eyes  you  ever  saw  in  your  life,  a  complexion 
like  cream,  and  hair — well,  there  never  was  such  hair! 
She  was  fanning  herself  real  slow,  and  in  the  language 
of  the  fan  that  means:  'This  don't  interest  me  a 
bit!'  So,  just  to  show  her  I  was  wise,  I  pulled  out 
my  handkerchief  and  dropped  it  on  the  floor,  and 
when  she  saw  me  she  stopped  and  began  to  count 
the  ribs  in  her  fan.  That  was  my  cue — it  meant  she 
wanted  to  speak  with  me — so  I  stepped  up  and  said: 

"'Excuse  me,  senorita,  but  while  the  gentlemen 
talk — and  if  the  senora,  your  mother,  will  permit — 
perhaps  we  can  enjoy  a  dance?' 

"And  say,  Bud,  you  should  have  seen  the  way 
she  rose  to  it.  That  girl  is  a  sport,  believe  me,  and 
the  idea  of  those  two  novios  chewing  the  rag  while  she 
sat  out  the  dance  didn't  appeal  to  her  at  all.  So 
she  gave  me  her  hand  and  away  we  went,  with  all 
the  old  ladies  talking  behind  their  fans  and  Manuel 
del  Rey  blowing  up  like  a  volcano  in  a  bunch  of 
carambas  or  worse.  Gee,  it  was  great,  and  she  could 
dance  like  a  queen. 

"But  here's  the  interesting  part  of  it — what  do 
you  think  she  asked  me,  after  we'd  had  our  little 
laugh?  Well,  you  don't  need  to  get  so  grouchy 
about  it — she  asked  about  you!" 


88  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Aw!" 

"Yes,  she  did!  So  you  see  what  you  get  for 
throwing  her  down!" 

"What  did  she  ask?" 

"Well,  she  asked — "  here  he  stopped  and  laughed 
— "she  asked  if  you  were  a  cowboy!" 

"No!"  cried  Bud,  pleased  in  spite  of  himself. 
'What  does  she  know  about  cowboys?" 

"Oh,  she's  wise!"  declared  Phil.  "She's  been  to 
school  twice  in  Los  Angeles  and  seen  the  wild  West 
show.  Yes,  sir,  she's  just  like  an  American  girl 
and  speaks  English  perfectly.  She  told  me  she 
didn't  like  the  Mexican  men — they  were  too  stuck 
on  themselves — and  say,  Bud,  when  I  told  her  you 
were  a  genuine  Texas  cowboy,  what  do  you  think 
she  said?" 

"W'y,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Bud,  smiling 
broadly  in  anticipation;  "what  did  she  say?" 

"She  said  she'd  like  to  know  you!" 

"She  did  not!"  came  back  Bud  with  sudden 
spirit. 

Though  he  laughed  the  thought  away,  a  great 
burden  seemed  to  be  lifted  from  his  heart,  and  he 
found  himself  happy  again. 


X 

TO    an     American,     accustomed     to     getting 
things    done    first    and    talking    about    it 
afterward,  there  is  nothing  so  subtly  irritat 
ing  as  the  Old  World  formalism,  the  polite  evasive 
ness  of  the  Mexicans;   and  yet,  at  times,  they  can 
speak  to  the  point  with  the  best  of  us. 

For  sixty  days  Don  Cipriano  Aragon  had  smiled 
and  smiled  and  then,  suddenly,  as  the  last  day  of 
their  mining  permit  passed  by  and  there  was  no 
record  of  a  denouncement  by  Cruz  Mendez,  he 
appeared  at  the  Eagle  Tail  mine  with  a  pistol  in 
his  belt  and  a  triumphant  sneer  on  his  lips. 

Behind  him  rode  four  Mexicans,  fully  armed, 
and  they  made  no  reply  to  De  Lancey's  polite 
"Buenos  dias!" 

"Take  your  poor  things,"  burst  out  Aragon, 
pointing  contemptuously  at  their  tent  and  beds, 
"and  your  low,  pelado  Mexican — and  go!  This 
mine  no  longer  stands  in  the  name  of  Cruz  Mendez, 
and  I  want  it  for  myself!  No,  not  a  word!"  he 
cried,  as  De  Lancey  opened  his  mouth  to  explain. 
"Nothing!  Only  go!" 

"No,  senor"  said  Hooker,  dropping  his  hand  to 
his  six-shooter  which  hung  low  by  his  leg  and 
stepping  forward,  "we  will  not  go!" 

"What?"  stormed  Aragon.     "You—" 

89 


90  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Be  careful  there!"  warned  Bud,  suddenly  fix 
ing  his  eyes  on  one  of  the  four  retainers.  "If  you 
touch  that  gun  I'll  kill  you!" 

There  was  a  pause,  in  which  the  Mexicans  sat 
frozen  to  their  saddles,  and  then  De  Lancey  broke 
the  silence. 

"You  must  not  think,  Senor  Aragon,"  he  began, 
speaking  with  a  certain  bitterness,  "that  you  can 
carry  your  point  like  this.  My  friend  here  is  a 
Texan,  and  if  your  men  stir  he  will  kill  them.  But 
there  is  a  law  in  this  country  for  every  man — what 
is  it  that  you  want?" 

"I  want  this  mining  claim,"  shouted  Aragon, 
"that  you  have  so  unjustly  taken  from  me  through 
that  scoundrel  Mendez!  And  I  want  you  to  step 
aside,  so  that  I  can  set  up  my  monuments  and  take 
possession  of  it." 

"The  Senor  Aragon  has  not  been  to  the  agentt 
mineral  to-day,"  suggested  De  Lancey  suavely. 
"If  he  had  taken  the  trouble  he  would  not — " 

"Enough!"  cried  Aragon,  still  trying  to  carry  it 
off  cavalierly.  "I  sent  my  servant  to  the  mining 
agent  yesterday  and  he  reported  that  the  permit 
had  lapsed." 

"If  he  had  taken  the  pains  to  inquire  for  new 
permits,  however,"  returned  De  Lancey,  "he  would 
have  found  that  one  has  been  issued  to  me.  I  am 
now  a  Mexican  citizen,  like  yourself." 

"You!"  screamed  Aragon,  his  eyes  bulging  with 
astonishment;  and  then,  finding  himself  tricked, 
he  turned  suddenly  upon  one  of  his  retainers  and 
struck  him  with  his  whip. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  91 

"Son  of  a  goat!"  he  stormed.  'Tig!  Is  this 
the  way  you  obey  my  orders  ? " 

But  though  he  raved  and  scolded,  he  had  gone 
too  far,  and  there  was  no  putting  the  blame  on  his 
servant.  In  his  desire  to  humiliate  the  hated  grin 
gos  he  had  thrown  down  all  his  guards,  and  even 
De  Lancey  saw  all  too  clearly  what  his  intentions  in 
the  matter  had  been. 

"Spare  your  cursing,  Senor  Aragon,"  he  said, 
"and  after  this,"  he  added,  "you  can  save  your 
pretty  words,  too — for  somebody  else.  We  shall 
remain  here  and  hold  our  property." 

"Ha!  You  Americanos!"  exclaimed  Aragon,  as 
he  chewed  bitterly  on  his  defeat.  "You  will  rob 
us  of  everything — even  our  government.  So  you 
are  a  Mexican  citizen,  eh?  You  must  value  this 
barren  mine  very  highly  to  give  up  the  protection 
of  your  government.  But  perhaps  you  are  ac 
quainted  with  a  man  named  Kruger?"  he  sneered. 

"He  would  sell  his  honor  any  time  to  defraud  a 
Mexican  of  his  rights,  and  I  doubt  not  it  was  he 
who  sent  you  here.  Yes,  I  have  known  it  from  the 
first — but  I  will  fool  him  yet! 

"So  you  are  a  Mexican  citizen,  Senor  De  Lancey? 
Bieuy  then  you  shall  pay  the  full  price  of  your  citizen 
ship.  Before  our  law  you  are  now  no  more  than  that 
poor  pelado,  Mendez.  You  cannot  appeal  now  to 
your  consul  at  Gadsden — you  are  only  a  Mexican! 
Very  well!" 

He-shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled  significantly. 

"No,"  retorted  De  Lancey  angrily;  "you  are 
right— I  cannot  appeal  to  my  government!  But 


92  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

let  me  tell  you  something,  Senor  Mexicano!  An 
American  needs  no  government  to  protect  him — he 
has  his  gun,  and  that  is  enough!" 

"Yes,"  added  Bud,  who  had  caught  the  drift 
of  the  last,  "and  he  has  his  friends,  too;  don't 
forget  that!"  He  strode  over  toward  Aragon  and 
menaced  him  with  a  threatening  finger. 

"If  anything  happens  to  my  friend,"  he  hissed, 
"you  will  have  me  to  whip!  And  now,  senor,"  he 
added,  speaking  in  the  idiom  of  the  country,  "go 
with  God — and  do  not  come  back!" 

"Pah!"  spat  back  Aragon,  his  hate  for  the  push 
ing  foreigner  showing  in  every  glance;  "I  will 
beat  you  yet!  And  I  pray  God  the  revoltosos  come 
this  way,  if  they  take  the  full  half  of  my  cattle — so 
long  as  they  get  you  two!" 

"Very  well,"  nodded  Bud  as  Aragon  and  his  men 
turned  away,  "but  be  careful  you  do  not  send  any! 

"Good!"  he  continued,  smiling  grimly  at  the 
pallid  Phil;  "now  we  got  him  where  we  want  him— 
out  in  the  open.  And  I'll  just  remember  them  four 
paisanos  he  had  with  him — they're  his  handy  men, 
the  boys  with  nerve — and  don't  never  let  one  of  'em 
catch  you  out  after  dark." 

De  Lancey  sat  down  on  a  rock  and  wiped  his  face. 

"Heavens,  Bud,"  he  groaned,  "I  never  would  have 
believed  it  of  him — I  thought  he  was  on  the  square. 
But  it  just  goes  to  prove  the  old  saying — every 
Mexican  has  got  a  streak  of  yellow  in  him  some 
where.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  trust  him  long 
enough  and  you'll  find  it  out.  Well,  we're  hep  to 
Mr.  Aragon,  all  right!" 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  93 

"I  have  never  seen  one  of  these  polite,  palavering 
Mexicans  yet,"  observed  Bud  sagely,  "that  wasn't 
crooked.  And  this  feller  Aragon  is  mean,  to  boot. 
But  that's  a  game,"  he  added,  "that  two  can  play 
at.  I  don't  know  how  you  feel,  Phil,  but  we  been 
kinder  creeping  and  slipping  around  so  long  that 
I'm  all  cramped  up  inside.  Never  suffered  more  in 
my  life  than  the  last  sixty  days — being  polite  to 
that  damn'  Mexican.  Now  it's  our  turn.  Are  you 
game?" 

"Count  me  in!"  cried  De  Lancey,  rising  from  his 
rock.  "What's  the  play?" 

"Well,  we'll  go  into  town  pretty  soon,"  grinned 
Bud,  "and  if  I  run  across  old  Aragon,  or  any  one 
of  them  four  bad  Mexicans,  I'm  going  to  make  a 
show.  And  as  for  that  big  brindle  dog  of  his — well, 
he's  sure  going  to  get  roped  and  drugged  if  he  don't 
mend  his  ways.  Come  on,  let's  ketch  up  our  horses 
and  go  in  for  a  little  time." 

"I'll  go  you!"  agreed  Phil  with  enthusiasm,  and 
half  an  hour  later,  each  on  his  favorite  horse,  they 
were  clattering  down  the  canon.  At  the  turn  of 
the  trail,  where  it  swung  into  the  Aragon  lane,  Bud 
took  down  his  rope  and  smiled  in  anticipation. 

"You  go  on  ahead,"  he  said,  shaking  out  his 
loop,  "and  I'll  try  to  put  the  catgut  on  Brindle." 

"Off  like  a  flash!"  answered  De  Lancey,  and, 
putting  the  spurs  to  his  fiery  bay,  he  went  dashing 
down  the  street,  scattering  chickens  and  hogs  in  all 
directions.  Behind  came  Bud,  rolling  jovially  in 
his  saddle,  and  as  the  dogs  rushed  out  after  his 
pardner  he  twirled  his  loop  once  and  laid  it  skilfully 


94  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

across  the  big  brindle's  back.  But  roping  dogs  is 
a  difficult  task  at  best,  and  But  was  out  of  practise. 
The  sudden  blow  struck  Brindle  to  the  ground  and 
the  loop  came  away  unfilled.  The  Texan  laughed, 
shifting  in  his  saddle. 

"Come  again!*'  commented  Bud,  leaning  side- 
wise  as  he  coiled  his  rope,  and  as  the  womenfolk 
and  idlers  came  rushing  to  see  what  had  happened  he 
turned  Copper  Bottom  in  his  tracks  and  came  back 
like  a  streak  of  light. 

"Look  out,  you  ugly  man's  dog!"  he  shouted, 
whirling  his  rope  as  he  rode;  and  then,  amid  a  chorus 
of  indignant  protests,  he  chased  the  yelping  Brindle 
down  the  lane  and  through  a  hole  in  the  fence. 
Then,  with  no  harm  done,  he  rode  back  up  the  street, 
smiling  amiably  and  looking  for  more  dogs  to  rope. 

In  the  door  of  the  store  stood  Aragon,  pale  with 
fury,  but  Bud  appeared  not  to  see  him.  His  eyes 
were  turned  rather  toward  the  house  where,  on 
the  edge  of  the  veranda,  Gracia  Aragon  and  her 
mother  stood  staring  at  his  antics. 

"Good  morning  to  you,  ladies!"  he  saluted,  taking 
off  his  sombrero  with  a  flourish.  "Lovely  weather, 
ain't  it?"  And  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  and  a 
.roguish  glance  at  Aragon,  who  was  stricken  dumb 
by  this  last  effrontery,  he  went  rollicking  after  his 
pardner,  sending  back  a  series  of  joyous  yips. 

"Now  that  sure  does  me  good,"  he  confided  to 
Phil,  as  they  rode  down  between  cottonwoods  and 
struck  into  the  muddy  creek.  "No  sense  in  it,  but 
it  gets  something  out  of  my  system  that  has  kept 
me  from  feeling  glad.  Did  you  see  me  bowing  t« 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  95 

the  ladies?  Some  class  to  that  bow — no?  You 
want  to  look  out — I  got  my  eye  on  that  gal,  and  I'm 
sure  a  hard  one  to  head.  Only  thing  is,  I  wouldn't 
like  the  old  man  for  a  father-in-law  the  way  matters 
stand  between  us  now." 

He  laughed  boisterously  at  this  witticism,  and  the 
little  Mexican  children,  playing  among  the  willows, 
crouched  and  lay  quiet  like  rabbits.  Along  the 
sides  of  the  rocky  hills,  where  the  peons  had  their 
mud-and-rock  houses,  mothers  came  anxiously  to 
open  doors;  and  as  they  jogged  along  up  the  river 
the  Chinese  gardeners,  working  in  each  separate 
nook  and  eddy  of  the  storm-washed  creek-bed, 
stopped  grubbing  to  gaze  at  them  inquiringly. 

"Wonder  what's  the  matter  with  them  chinks?" 
observed  Bud,  when  his  happiness  had  ceased  to 
effervesce.  "They  sit  up  like  a  village  of  prairie- 
dogs!  Whole  country  seems  to  be  on  the  rubber 
neck.  Must  be  something  doing." 

"That's  right,"  agreed  Phil.  "Did  you  notice 
how  those  peons  scattered  when  I  rode  down  the 
street?  Maybe  there's  beerj,  some  insurrectos 
through.  But  say — listen!" 

He  stopped  his  horse,  and  in  the  silence  a  bugle-call 
came  down  the  wind  from  the  direction  of  Fortuna. 

"Soldiers!"  he  said.  "Now  where  did  they  come 
from?  I  was  in  Fortuna  day  before  yesterday,  and 
—well,  look  at  that!" 

From  the  point  of  the  hill  just  ahead  of  them  a 
line  of  soldiers  came  into  view,  marching  two  abreast, 
with  a  mounted  officer  in  the  lead. 

"Aha!"  exclaimed  Bud  with  conviction;  "they've 


96  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

started  something  down  below.     This  is  that  bunch 
of  Federals  that  we  saw  drilling  up  at  Agua  Negra." 

"Yep,"  admitted  De  Lancey  regretfully;  "I  guess 
you're  right  for  once — the  open  season  for  rebels 
has  begun." 

They  drew  out  of  the  road  and  let  them  pass — 
a  long,  double  line  of  shabby  infantrymen,  still 
wearing  their  last-year's  straw  hats  and  summer 
uniforms  and  trudging  along  in  flapping  sandals. 

In  front  were  two  men  bearing  lanterns,  to  search 
out  the  way  by  night;  slatternly  women,  the 
inevitable  camp-followers,  trotted  along  at  the  sides 
with  their  bundles  and  babies;  and  as  the  little 
brown  men  from  Zacatecas,  each  burdened  with  his 
heavy  gun  and  a  job  lot  of  belts  and  packs,  shuffled 
patiently  past  the  Americans,  they  flashed  the 
whites  of  their  eyes  and  rumbled  a  chorus  of  "Adios!" 

"jfdios,  Americanos!"  they  called,  gazing  envi 
ously  at  their  fine  horses,  and  Phil  in  his  turn  touched 
his  hat  and  wished  them  all  God-speed. 

"Poor  devils!"  he  murmured,  as  the  last  totter 
ing  camp-followers,  laden  with  their  burdens,  brought 
up  the  rear  and  a  white-skinned  Spanish  officer 
saluted  from  his  horse.  "What  do  those  little  pelones 
know  about  liberty  and  justice,  or  the  game  that  is 
being  played?  Wearing  the  same  uniforms  that 
they  had  when  they  fought  for  Diaz,  and  now  they 
are  fighting  for  Madero.  Next  year  they  may  be 
working  for  Orozco  or  Huerta  or  Salazar." 

"Sure,"  muttered  Bud;  "but  that  ain't  the  ques 
tion.  If  the's  rebels  in  the  hills,  where  do  we  get 
off?" 


XI 


THE  plaza  at  Fortuna,  ordinarily  so  peaceful 
and   sleepy,   was   alive  with   hurrying   men 
when   Bud   and    Phil   reached   town.     Over 
at  the  station  a  special  engine  was  wheezing  and 
blowing  after  its  heavy  run  and,  from  the  train  of 
commandeered  ore-cars  behind,  a  swarm  of  soldiers 
were  leaping  to  the  ground.     On  the  porch  of  the 
hotel  Don  Juan  de  Dios  Brachamonte  was  making 
violent  signals  with  his  hands,   and  as   they  rode 
up  he  hurried  out  to  meet  them. 

"My  gracious,  boys,"  he  cried,  "it's  a  good  thing 
you  came  into  town!  Bernardo  Bravo  has  come 
over  the  mountains  and  he's  marching  to  take 
Moctezuma ! " 

"Why,  that  doesn't  make  any  difference  to  us!" 
answered  Phil.  "Moctezuma  is  eighty  miles  from 
here — and  look  at  all  the  soldiers.  How  many 
men  has  Bernardo  got?" 

"Well,  that  I  do  not  know,"  responded  Don  Juan; 
"some  say  more  and  some  less,  but  if  you  boys 
hadn't  come  in  I  would  have  sent  a  man  to  fetch 
you.  Just  as  soon  as  a  revolution  begins  the  back 
country  becomes  unsafe  for  Americans.  Some  of 
these  low  characters  are  likely  to  murder  you  if 
they  think  you  have  any  money." 

97 


98  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Well,  we  haven't,"  put  in  Bud;  "but  we've  got 
a  mine — and  we're  going  to  keep  it,  too." 

"Aw,    Bernardo    Bravo   hasn't   got    any    men!" 

scoffed  Phil.     "I  bet  this  is  a  false  alarm.     He  got 

whipped  out  of  his  boots  over  in  Chihauhua  last 

fall,  and  he's  been  up  in  the  Sierra  Madres  ever  since. 

I  Probably  come  down  to  steal  a  little  beef. 

"Why,  Don  Juan,  Bud  and  I  lived  right  next  to 
a  trail  all  last  year  and  if  we'd  listened  to  one-tenth 
of  the  revoltoso  stories  we  heard  we  wouldn't  have 
taken  out  an  ounce  of  gold.  I'm  going  to  get  my 
denouncement  papers  to-morrow,  and  I'll  bet  you 
we  work  that  mine  all  summer  and  never  know  the 
difference.  These  rebels  won't  hurt  you  any, 
anyhow!" 

"No!  Only  beg  a  little  grub!"  added  Bud  scorn 
fully.  "Come  on,  Phil;  let's  go  over  and  look  at 
the  soldiers — it's  that  bunch  of  Yaquis  we  saw  up 
at  Agua  Negra." 

They  tied  their  horses  to  the  rack  and,  leaving  the 
solicitous  Don  Juan  to  sputter,  hurried  over  to  the 
yard.  From  the  heavy  metal  ore-cars,  each  a  roll 
ing  fortress  in  itself,  the  last  of  the  active  Yaquis 
were  helping  out  their  women  and  pet  dogs,  while 
the  rest,  talking  and  laughing  in  high  spirits,  were 
'strung  out  along  the  track  in  a  perfunctory  line. 

If  the  few  officers  in  command  had  ever  attempted 
to  teach  them  military  discipline,  the  result  was  not 
apparent  in  the  line  they  formed;  but  any  man  who 
looked  at  their  swarthy  faces,  the  hawklike  profiles, 
and  deep-set,  steady  eyes,  would  know  that  they 
were  fighters. 


THE   DESERT  TRAIL  99 

After  all,  a  straight  line  on  parade  has  very  little 
to  do  with  actual  warfare,  and  these  men  had  proved 
their  worth  under  fire. 

To  be  sure,  it  was  the  fire  of  Mexican  guns,  and 
perhaps  that  was  why  the  officers  were  _so  quiet 
and  unassertive;  for  every  one  of  these  big,  up 
standing  Indians  had  been  captured  in  the  Yaqui 
wars  and  deported  to  the  henequen  fields  of  Yuca 
tan  to  die  in  the  miasma  and  heat. 

But  they  had  come  from  a  hardy  breed  and  the 
whirligig  of  fortune  was  flying  fast — Madero  defeated 
Pornrio  Diaz;  fresh  revolutions  broke  out  against  the 
victor,  and,  looking  about  in  desperation  for  soldiers 
to  fill  his  ranks,  Madero  fell  upon  the  Yaquis. 

Trained  warriors  for  generations,  of  a  race  so 
fierce  that  the  ancient  Aztecs  had  been  turned 
aside  by  them  in  their  empire-founding  migration, 
they  were  the  very  men  to  whip  back  the  rebels,  if 
he  could  but  win  them  to  his  side. 

So  Madero  had  approached  Chief  Bule,  whom 
Diaz  had  taken  under  a  flag  of  truce,  and  soon  the 
agreement  was  made.  In  return  for  faithful  ser 
vice,  Mexico  would  give  back  to  the  Indians  the  one 
thing  they  had  been  fighting  a  hundred  and  sixty 
years  to  attain,  their  land  along  the  Rio  Yaqui; 
and  there  they  should  be  permitted  to  live  in  peace 
as  their  ancestors  had  done  before  them. 

And  so,  with  a  thousand  or  more  of  his  men,  the 
crafty  old  war-chief  had  taken  service  in  the  Federal 
army,  though  his  mind,  poisoned  perhaps  by  the 
treachery  he  had  suffered,  was  not  entirely  free  from 
guile. 


ioo  THE   DESERT  TRAIL 

"It  is  the  desire  of  the  Yaquis,"  he  had  said,  when 
rebuked  for  serving  under  the  hated  flag  of  Mexico, 
"to  kill  Mexicans,  And,"  he  added  grimly,  "the 
Federals  at  this  time  seem  best  able  to  give  us  guns 
for  that  purpose." 

But  it  had  been  a  year  now  since  Bule  had  passed  k 
his  word  and,  though  they  had  battled  valiantly, 
their  land  had  not  been  given  back  to  them.  The 
wild  Yaquis,  the  irreconcilables  who  never  came 
down  from  the  hills,  had  gone  on  the  war-path 
again,  but  Bule  and  his  men  still  served. 

Only  in  two  things  did  they  disobey  their  officers 
— they  would  not  stack  their  arms,  and  they  would 
not  retreat  while  there  were  still  more  Mexicans  to 
be  killed.  Otherwise  they  were  very  good  soldiers. 

But  now,  after  the  long  campaign  in  Chihuahua 
and  a  winter  of  idleness  at  Agua  Negra,  they  were 
marching  south  toward  their  native  land  and,  in 
spite  of  the  stern  glances  of  their  leaders,  they  burst 
forth  in  weird  Yaqui  songs  which,  if  their  words 
had  been  known,  might  easily  have  caused  their 
Mexican  officers  some  slight  uneasiness. 

It  was,  in  fact,  only  a  question  of  days,  months, 
or  years  until  the  entire  Yaqui  contingent  would 
desert,  taking  their  arms  and  ammunition  with  them. 

"Gee!  what  a  bunch  of  men!"  exclaimed  Bud,  as 
he  stood  off  and  admired  their  stark  forms. 

"There's  some  genuine  fighters  for  you,"  he 
observed  to  Phil;  and  a  giant  Yaqui,  standing  near, 
returned  his  praise  with  a  smile. 

"W'y,  hello  there,  Amigo!"  hailed  Bud,  jerking 
his  head  in  a  friendly  salute.  "That's  a  feller  I  was 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  lot 

making  signs  to  up  in  Agua  Negra,""  he-explained; 
"Dogged  if  I  ain't  stuck  on  these  Yaquis — they're 
all  men,  believe  me!" 

"Good  workers,  all  right/'  conceded  De  Lancey, 
"but  I'd  hate  to  have  'em  get  after  me  with  those 
guns.  They  say  they've  killed  a  lot  of  Americans, 
one  time  and  another." 

"Well,  if  they  did  it  was  for  being  caught  in  bad 
company,"  said  Hooker.  "I'd  take  a  chance  with 
'em  any  time — but  if  you  go  into  their  country  with 
a  Mexican  escort  they'll  kill  you  on  general  prin 
ciples.  Say,"  he  cried  impulsively,  "I'm  going  over 
to  talk  with  Amigo!" 

With  a  broad  grin  on  his  honest  face  he  advanced 
toward  the  giant  Yaqui  and  shook  hands  ceremoni 
ously. 

"Where  you  go?"  he  inquired  in  Spanish,  at  the 
2ame  time  rolling  a  cigarette  and  asking  by  a  sign 
for  a  match. 

"Moctezuma,"  answered  the  Indian  gravely. 
Then,  as  Bud  offered  him  the  makings,  he,  too, 
rolled  a  cigarette  and  they  smoked  for  a  minute  in 
silence. 

"You  live  here?"  inquired  the  Yaqui  at  last. 

"Come  here,"  corrected  Bud.  "I  have  a  mine — 
ten  miles — over  there." 

He  pointed  with  the  flat  of  his  hand,  Indian 
fashion,  and  Amigo  nodded  understandingly. 

He  was  a  fine  figure  of  a  man,  standing  six  feet 
or  better  in  his  well-cut  sandals  and  handling  his 
heavy  Mauser  as  a  child  would  swing  a  stick.  Across 
his  broad  chest  he  wore  a  full  cartridge-belt,  and 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

around  his  waist  he  had  two  more,  filled  to  the  last 
hole  with  cartridges  and  loaded  clips.  At  his  feet 
lay  his  blanket,  bound  into  a  tight  roll,  and  a  can 
teen  and  coffee-cup  completed  his  outfit,  which,  so 
far  as  impedimenta  were  concerned,  was  simplicity 
itself. 

But  instead  of  the  cheap  linen  uniform  ^of  the 
Federals  he  was  dressed  in  good  American  clothes — 
a  striped  shirt,  overalls,  and  a  sombrero  banded  with 
a  bright  ribbon — and  in  place  of  the  beaten,  hunted 
look  of  those  poor  conscripts  he  had  the  steady  gaze 
of  a  free  man. 

They  stood  and  smoked  for  a  few  moments, 
talking  briefly,  and  then,  as  the  Yaquis  closed  up 
their  ranks  and  marched  off  to  make  camp  for  the 
night,  Bud  presented  his  strange  friend  with  the 
3ack  of  tobacco  and  went  back  to  join  his  pardner. 

That  evening  the  plaza  was  filled  with  the  wildest 
rumors,  and  another  train  arrived  during  the  night, 
but  through  it  all  Bud  and  Phil  remained  unim 
pressed.  In  the  morning  the  soldiers  went  marching 
off  down  the  trail,  leaving  a  great  silence  where  all 
had  been  bugle-calls  and  excitement,  and  then  the 
first  fugitive  came  in  from  down  below. 

He  was  an  old  Mexican,  with  trembling  beard 
and  staring  eyes,  and  he  told  a  tale  of  outrage  that 
made  their  blood  run  cold.  The  red-flaggers  had 
come  to  his  house  at  night;  they  had  killed  his  wife 
and  son,  left  him  upon  the  ground  for  dead,  and 
carried  off  his  daughter,  a  prisoner. 

But  later,  when  the  comisario  questioned  him 
sharply,  it  developed  that  he  lived  not  far  away, 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  103 

had  no  daughter  to  lose,  and  was,  in  fact,  only  a 
crazed  old  man  who  told  for  truth  that  which  he 
feared  would  happen. 

Notwithstanding  the  denouement,  his  story  stirred 
the  Mexican  population  to  the  depths,  and  when 
Bud  and  Phil  tried  to  hire  men  to  push  the  work  on 
the  mine,  they  realized  that  their  troubles  had  begun. 
Not  only  was  it  impossible  to  engage  laborers  at 
any  price,  but  on  the  following  day  Cruz  Mendez, 
with  his  wife  and  children  and  all  his  earthy  posses 
sions  on  his  burros,  came  hurrying  in  from  the  camp 
and  told  them  he  could  serve  them  no  more. 

"It  is  my  woman,"  he  explained;  "my  Maria! 
Ah,  if  those  revoltosos  should  see  Maria  they  would 
steal  her  before  my  eyes!" 

So  he  was  given  his  pay  and  the  fifty  dollars  he  had 
earned  and,  after  the  customary  "Muchas  gracias" 
and  with  the  faithful  Maria  by  his  side,  he  went 
hurrying  off  to  the  store. 

And  now  in  crowded  vehicles,  with  armed  men 
riding  in  front  and  behind,  the  refugees  from  Moc- 
tezuma  and  the  hot  country  began  to  pour  into 
town,  adding  by  their  very  Chaste  to  the  panic  of 
all  who  saw  them. 

They  were  the  rich  property-owners  who,  having 
been  subjected  to  forced  contribution  before,  were 
now  fleeing  at  the  first  rumor  of  danger,  bringing 
their  families  with  them  to  escape  any  being  held 
for  ransom. 

In  half  a  day  the  big  hotel  presided  over  by  Don 
Juan  de  Dios  Brachamonte  was  swarming  with 
staring-eyed  country  mothers  and  sternly  subdued 


io4  THE   DESERT  TRAIL 

families  of  children;  and  finally,  to  add  eclat  to  the 
occasion  and  compensate  for  the  general  con 
fusion,  Don  Cipriano  Aragon  y  Tres  Palacios  came 
driving  up  to  the  door  with  his  wife  and  the  smiling 
Gracia. 

If  she  had  been  in  any  fear  of  capture  by  bold 
marauders,  Gracia  Aragon  did  not  show  it  now,  as 
she  sprang  lightly  from  the  carriage  and  waited  upon 
her  lady  mother.  Perhaps,  after  a  year  or  more  of 
rumors  and  alarms,  she  had  come  to  look  upon 
impending  revolutionary  conflicts  as  convenient 
excuses  for  a  trip  to  town,  a  long  stop  at  the  hotel, 
and  even  a  dash  to  gay  Gadsden  in  case  the  rebels 
pressed  close. 

However  that  may  be,  while  Don  Juan  exerted 
himself  to  procure  them  a  good  room  she  endured 
the  gaze  of  the  American  guests  with  becoming 
placidity  and,  as  that  took  some  time,  she  even 
ventured  to  look  the  Americans  over  and  make  some 
comments  to  her  mother. 

And  then — or  as  it  seemed  to  Bud — the  mother 
glanced  up  quickly  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him. 
After  that  he  was  in  less  of  a  hurry  to  return  to  the 
mine,  and  Phil  said  they  would  stay  inside  for  a 
week.  But  as  for  Don  Cipriano,  when  he  came 
across  them  it  was  with  malignant  insolence  and  he 
abruptly  turned  his  back. 

At  La  Fortuna  he  was  the  lord  and  master,  with 
power  to  fofbid  them  the  place;  but  now  once  more 
the  fortunes  of  war  had  turned  against  him,  and  he 
was  forced  to  tolerate  their  presence. 

The  band  played  in  the  plaza  that  evening,  it 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  105 

being  Thursday  of  the  week,  and  as  the  cornet  led 
with  "La  Paloma,"  and  the  bass  viol  and  guitars 
beat  the  measure,  all  feet  seemed  to  turn  in  that 
direction,  and  the  fear  of  the  raiders  was  stilled. 

Around  and  around  the  band-stand  and  in  and 
out  beneath  the  trees  the  pleasure-loving  maidens 
from  down  below  walked  decorously  with  their 
mothers;  and  the  little  band  of  Fortuna  Americans, 
to  whom  life  for  some  months  had  been  a  trifle 
burdensome,  awoke  suddenly  to  the  beauty  of  the 
evening. 

And  among  the  rest  of  the  maidens,  but  far  more 
ravishing  and  high-bred,  walked  Gracia  Aragon,  at 
whom  Bud  in  particular  stole  many  secret  glances 
from  beneath  the  broad  brim  of  his  hat,  hoping  that 
by  some  luck  the  insurrectos  would  come  upon  the 
town,  and  he  could  defend  her — he  alone.  For  he 
felt  that  he  could  do  it  against  any  hundred  Mexi 
cans  that  ever  breathed. 


XII 


IN  its  inception  the  Fortuna  hotel  had  not 
been  intended  for  the  use  of  Mexicans — in  fact, 
its  rates  were  practically  prohibitive  for  any 
one  not  being  paid  in  gold — but,  since  most  of  the 
Americans  had  left,  and  seven  dollars  a  day  Mex  was 
no  deterrent  to  the  rich  refugee  landowners,  it 
became  of  a  sudden  international,  with  a  fine 
mixture  of  purse-proud  Spaniards  and  race-proud 
American  adventurers. 

Not  a  very  pleasing  combination  for  the  parents 
of  romantic  damsels  destined  for  some  prearranged 
marriage  of  state,  but  very  exciting  for  the  damsels 
and  most  provocative  to  the  Americans. 

After  the  promenade  in  the  plaza  the  mothers  by 
common  consent  preempted  the  up-stairs  reception- 
room,  gathering  their  precious  charges  in  close; 
while  the  Americans,  after  their  custom,  forgathered 
in  the  lobby,  convenient  to  the  bar.  Hot  arguments 
about  the  revolution,  and  predictions  of  events  to 
come,  served  to  pass  the  early  evening,  with  many 
scornful  glances  at  the  Mexican  dandies  who  went 
so  insolently  up  the  stairs.  And  then,  as  the  refugees 
retired  to  their  apartments  and  the  spirit  of  adven 
ture  rose  uppermost,  Phil  De  Lancey  made  a  dash 
out  into  the  darkness  and  came  back  with  a  Mexican 

string  band. 

106 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  107 

"A  serenade,  boys!"  he  announced,  as  the  musi 
cians  filed  sheepishly  into  the  hotel.  "Our  guests, 
the  fair  senoritas,  you  know!  We'll  make  those 
young  Mexican  dudes  look  like  two-spots  before  the 
war  is  over.  Who's  game  now  for  a  song  beneath 
the  windows?  You  know  the  old  stand-bys— 
'La  Paloma*  and  'Teresita  Mia* — and  you  want  to 
listen  to  me  sing  'Me  Gustan  Todas'  to  Gracia,  the 
fairest  of  the  fair!  Come  on,  fellows,  out  in  the 
plaza,  and  then  listen  to  the  old  folks  cuss!" 

They  adjourned  then,  after  a  drink  for  courage, 
to  the  moonlight  and  the  plaza;  and  there,  beneath 
the  shuttered  windows  and  vacant  balconies,  the 
guitars  and  violins  took  up  "La  Paloma,"  while  Phil 
and  a  few  brave  spirits  sang. 

A  silence  followed  their  first  attempt,  as  well 
as  their  second  and  third,  and  the  comisario  of 
police,  a  mild  creature  owned  and  paid  by  the  com 
pany,  came  around  and  made  a  few  ineffectual  pro 
tests. 

But  inside  the  company's  concession,  where  by 
common  consent  the  militant  rurales  kept  their 
hands  off,  the  Americans  knew  they  were  safe, 
and  they  soon  jollied  the  comisario  into  taking  a 
drink  and  departing.  Then  De  Lancey  took  up  the 
burden,  and  the  string  band,  hired  by  the  hour, 
strummed  on  as  if  for  eternity. 

One  by  one  the  windows  opened;  fretful  fathers 
stepped  out  on  the  balcony  and,  bound  by  the 
custom  and  convention  of  the  country,  thanked 
them  and  bade  them  good  night.  But  the  two  win 
dows  behind  which  the  Senor  Aragon  and  his  family 


io8  THE   DESERT  TRAIL 

reposed  did  not  open  and,  though  the  dwindling 
band  stood  directly  under  their  balcony,  and  all 
knew  that  his  daughter  was  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 
Don  Cipriano  did  not  wish  them  good  night. 

Perhaps  he  recognized  the  leading  tenor — and  the 
big  voice  of  Bud  Hooker,  trying  to  still  the  riot — but, 
however  it  was,  he  would  not  speak  to  them,  and 
De  Lancey  would  not  quit. 

"Try  'em  on  American  music,"  he  cried,  as  every 
one  but  Bud  went  away  in  disgust,  "the  latest  rag 
from  Broadwa-ay,  New  York.  Here,  gimme  that 
guitar,  hombre,  and  listen  to  this  now!" 

He  picked  out  a  clever  bit  of  syncopation  and 
pitched  his  voice  to  a  heady  twang: 

"Down  in  the  garden  where  the  red  roses  grow, 
Oh  my,  I  long  to  go! 

Pluck  me  like  a  flower,  cuddle  me  an  hour, 
Lovie,  let  me  learn  the  Rose  Red  Ra-ag!" 

There  was  some  swing  to  that,  and  it  seemed  to 
make  an  impression,  for  just  as  he  was  well  started 
on  the  chorus  the  slats  of  one  of  the  shutters  parted 
and  a  patch  of  white  shone  through  the  spaces.  It 
was  the  ladies,  then,  who  were  getting  interested! 
Phil  wailed  on: 

"Swee-eet  honey-bee,  be  sweet  to  me! 
My  heart  is  free,  but  here's  the  key!" 

And  then,  positively,  he  could  see  that  patch  of 
white  beat  time.  He  took  heart  of  grace  at  that 
and  sang  on  to  the  end,  and  at  a  suggestion  of 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  109 

clapping  in  dumb-show  he  gave  an  encore  and 
ragged  it  over  again. 

"'Ev'rybody's  doin'  it,  doin'  it,  doin'  it!'"  he 
began,  as  the  shadow  dance  ceased. 

/"Honey,  I  declare,  it's  a  bear,  it's  a  bear,  it's  a 
bear!'"  he  continued  temptingly,  and  was  well  on 
his  way  to  further  extravagancies  when  the  figure 
in  white  swiftly  vanished  and  a  door  slammed  hard 
inside  the  house. 

Several  minutes  later  the  form  of  Don  Juan 
appeared  at  the  lower  door,  and  in  no  uncertain 
tones  he  requested  them  to  cease. 

"The  Senor  Aragon  informs  me,"  he  said,  "that 
your  music  annoys  him." 

"Well,  let  him  come  to  the  balcony  and  say  his 
'buenas  noches,'"  answered  Phil  resentfully. 

"The  gentleman  refuses  to  do  that,"  responded 
Don  Juan  briefly. 

"Then  let  him  go  to  bed!"  replied  De  Lancey, 
strumming  a  few  syncopated  chords.  "I'm  singing 
to  his  daughter." 

At  that  Don  Juan  came  down  off  the  porch  in 
his  slippers  and  they  engaged  in  a  protracted  argu 
ment. 

"What,  don't  I  get  a  word,"  demanded  Phil 
grievously,  "not  a  pleasant  look  from  anybody? 
'Swee-eet  honey-bee,  be  sweet  to  me!'"  he  pleaded, 
turning  pathetically  to  the  lady's  balcony;  and  then, 
with  a  sudden  flourish,  a  white  handkerchief  ap 
peared  through  the  crack  of  the  shutters  and  Gracia 
waved  him  good  night. 

"Enough,  Don  Juan!"  he  cried,  laying  down  the 


i  io  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

guitar  with  a  thump.  "This  ends  our  evening's 
entertainment!" 

After  paying  and  thanking  the  stolid  musicians 
Phil  joined  Bud  and  the  pair  adjourned  to  their 
room  where,  in  the  intervals  of  undressing,  Phil 
favored  the  occupants  of  the  adjoining  apartments 
with  an  aria  from  "Beautiful  Doll." 

But  for  all  such  nights  of  romance  and  music 
there  is  always  a  morning  afterward;  and  a  fine 
tenor  voice  set  to  rag-time  never  helped  much  in 
the  development  of  a  mine.  Though  Bud  had  re 
mained  loyally  by  his  friend  in  his  evening  serenade 
he,  for  one,  never  forgot  for  a  moment  that  they  were 
in  Fortuna  to  work  the  Eagle  Tail  and  not  to  win 
the  hearts  of  Spanish-Mexican  senoritasy  no  matter 
how  attractive  they  might  be. 

Bud  was  a  practical  man  who,  if  he  ever  made 
love,  would  doubtless  do  it  in  a  perfectly  business 
like  way,  without  hiring  any  string  bands.  But  at 
the  same  time  he  was  willing  to  make  some  con 
cessions. 

"Well,  go  ahead  and  get  your  sleep,  then,"  he 
growled,  after  trying  three  times  in  the  morning 
to  get  his  pardner  up;  "I'm  going  out  to  the  mine!" 

Then,  with  a  saddle-gun  under  his  knee  and  his 
six-shooter  hung  at  his  hip,  he  rode  rapidly  down  the 
road,  turning  out  from  time  to  time  to  let  long 
cavalcades  of  mules  string  by!  The  dead-eyed 
arrieros,  each  with  his  combined  mule-blind  and 
whip-lash  swinging  free,  seemed  to  have  very  little 
on  their  minds  but  their  pack-lashings,  and  yet  they 
must  be  three  days  out  from  Moctezuma. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  in 

Their  mules,  too,  were  well  loaded  with  the 
products  of  the  hot  country — fanegas  of  corn  in  red 
leather  sacks,  oranges  and  fruits  in  hand-made 
crates,  panoches  of  sugar  in  balanced  frames,  long 
joints  of  sugar-cane  for  the  duke  pedlers,  and 
nothing  to  indicate  either  haste  or  flight. 

Three  times  he  let  long  pack-trains  go  by  without 
a  word,  and  then  at  last,  overcome  by  curiosity, 
he  inquired  about  the  revoltosos. 

"What  rewltosos?"  queried  the  old  man  to  whom 
he  spoke. 

"Why,  the  men  of  Bernardo  Bravo,"  answered 
Bud;  "the  men  who  are  marching  to  take  Moc- 


tezuma." 


"When  I  left  Moctezuma,"  returned  the  old  man 
politely,  "all  was  quiet — there  were  no  revoltosos. 
Since  then,  I  cannot  say." 

"But  the  soldiers!"  cried  Bud.  "Surely  you  saw 
them!  They  were  marching  to  fight  the  rebels." 

"Perhaps  so,"  shrugged  the  arriero,  laying  the 
lash  of  his  topojo  across  the  rump  of  a  mule;  "but 
I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"No,"  muttered  Bud,  as  he  continued  on  his  way; 
"and  I'll  bet  nobody  else  does." 

Inquiry  showed  that  in  this,  too,  he  was  correct. 
From  those  who  traveled  fast  and  from  those  who 
traveled  slow  he  received  the  same  wondering 
answer — the  country  might  be  filled  with  revoltosos; 
but  as  for  them,  they  knew  nothing  about  it. 

Not  until  he  got  back  to  Fortuna  and  the  busy 
Federals' telegraph-wire  did  he  hear  any  more  news 
of  rapine  and  bloodshed,  and  the  light  which  dawned 


ii2  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

upon  him  then  was  gradually  dawning  upon  the 
whole  town. 

It  was  a  false  alarm,  given  out  for  purposes  of 
state  and  the  "higher  politics"  with  which  Mexico  is 
cursed,  and  the  most  that  was  ever  seen  of  Bernardo 
Bravo  and  his  lawless  men  was  twenty  miserable 
creatures,  half-starved,  but  with  guns  in  their 
hand,  who  had  come  down  out  of  the  mountains  east 
of  Moctezuma  and  killed  a  few  cows  for  beef. 

Thoroughly  disgusted,  and  yet  vaguely  alarmed 
at  this  bit  of  opera-bouffe  warfare,  Bud  set  himself 
resolutely  to  work  to  hunt  up  men  for  their  mine, 
and,  as  many  poor  people  were  out  of  employment 
because  of  the  general  stagnation  of  business,  he 
soon  had  ten  Mexicans  at  his  call. 

Then,  as  Phil  had  dropped  out  of  sight,  he  ordered 
supplies  at  the  store  and  engaged  Cruz  Mendez — 
who  had  spent  his  fortune  in  three  days — to  pack  the 
goods  out  on  his  mules. 

They  were  ready  to  start  the  next  morning  if 
De  Lancey  could  be  found  to  order  the  powder  and 
tools,  and  as  the  afternoon  wore  on  and  no  Phil 
appeared,  But  went  on  a  long  hunt  which  finally 
discovered  him  in  the  balcony  of  their  window, 
making  signs  in  the  language  of  the  bear.* 

"Say,  Phil/'  he  hailed,  disregarding  his  pardner's 
obvious  preoccupation;  "break  away  for  a  minute 
and  tell  me  what  kind  of  powder  to  get  to  break 
that  schist — the  store  closes  at  five  o'clock,  and — " 

*  In  Mexico  a  man  who  flirts  with  a  woman,  or  courts  her 
surreptitiously  through  the  bars  of  her  window,  is  called  a 
-bear." 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  113 

He  thrust  his  head  out  the  door  as  he  spoke  and 
paused,  abashed.  Through  the  half-closed  portal 
of  the  next  balcony  but  one  he  beheld  the  golden 
hair  of  Gracia  Aragon,  and  she  fixed  her  brown  eyes 
upon  him  with  a  dazzling,  mischievous  smile. 

"O-ho!"  murmured  Bud,  laying  a  compelling  hand 
on  De  Lancey  and  backing  swiftly  out  of  range; 
"so  this  is  what  you're  up  to — talking  signs!  But 
say,  Phil,"  he  continued,  beckoning  him  peremp 
torily  with  a  jerk  of  his  head,  "I  got  ten  men  hired 
and  a  lot  of  grub  bought,  and  if  you  don't  pick  out 
that  mining  stuff  we're  going  to  lose  a  day.  So  get 
the  lady  to  excuse  you  and  come  on  now." 

"In  a  minute,"  pleaded  Phil,  and  he  went  at  the 
end  of  his  allotted  time,  and  perhaps  it  was  the 
imp  of  jealousy  that  put  strength  into  Hooker's 
arm. 

"Well,  that's  all  right,"  said  Bud,  as  Phil  began 
his  laughing  excuses;  "but  you  want  to  remember 
the  Maine,  pardner — we  didn't  come  down  here 
to  play  the  bear.  When  the's  any  love-making  to 
be  done  I  want  to  be  in  on  it.  And  you  want  to 
remember  that  promise  you  made  me — you  said 
you  wouldn't  have  a  thing  to  do  with  the  Aragon 
outfit  unless  I  was  with  you!" 

"Why,  you  aren't — you  aren't  jealous,  are  you, 
Bud?" 

"Yes,  I'm  jealous,"  answered  Hooker  harshly; 
"jealous  as  the  devil!  And  I  want  you  to  keep  that 
promise,  see?" 

"Aw,  Bud —  '  began  De  Lancey  incredulously; 
but  Hooker  silenced  him  with  a  look.  Perhaps  he 


ii4  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

was  really  jealous,  or  perhaps  he  only  said  so  to  have 
his  way,  but  Phil  saw  that  he  was  in  earnest,  and 
he  went  quietly  by  his  side. 

But  love  had  set  his  brain  in  a  whirl,  and  he 
thought  no  more  of  his  promise — only  of  some 
subtler  way  of  meeting  his  inamorata,  some  way 
which  Bud  would  fail  to  see. 


XIII 

FOR  sixty  days  and  more,  while  the  weather 
had  been  turning  from  cold  to  warm  and  they 
had  been  laboring  feebly  to  clear  way  the 
great  slide  of  loose  rock  that  covered  up  the  ledge, 
the  Eagle  Tail  mine  had  remained  a  mystery. 

Whether,  like  the  old  Eagle  Tail  of  frontier  fable, 
it  was  so  rich  that  only  the  eagle's  head  was  needed 
to  turn  the  chunks  into  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces; 
or  whether,  like  many  other  frontier  mines,  it  was 
nothing  but  a  hole  in  the  ground,  was  a  matter 
still  to  be  settled.  And  Bud,  for  one,  was  deter 
mined  to  settle  it  quickly. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  as  Phil  hesitated  to  open 
up  the  way  to  the  lead;  "we  got  a  month,  maybe 
less,  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  this;  and  then  the  hills 
will  be  lousy  with  rebels.  If  the's  nothing  here,  we 
want  to  find  out  about  it  quick  and  skip — and  if 
we  strike  it,  by  grab!  the'  ain't  enough  red-Saggers 
in  Sonora  to  pry  me  loose  from  it.  So  show  these 
hombres  where  to  work  and  we'll  be  up  against  rock 
by  the  end  of  the  week." 

The  original  Eagle  Tail  tunnel  had  been  driven 
into  the  side  of  a  steep  hill;  so  steep,  in  fact,  that 
the  loose  shale  stretched  in  long  shoots  from  the 
base  of  the  frowning  porphyry  dikes  that  crowned 
the  tops  of  the  hills  to  the  bottom  of  the  canon.  On 

115 


ii6  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

each  side  of  the  discovery  gulch  sharp  ridges, 
perforated  by  the  gopher-holes  of  the  Mexicans, 
and  the  ancient  workings  of  the  Spaniards,  ran 
directly  up  the  hill  to  meet  the  contact.  But  it 
was  against  the  face  of  the  big  ridge  itself  that  Kruger 
had  driven  his  drift  and  exploded  his  giant  blast  of 
dynamite,  and  the  whole  slope  had  been  altered 
and  covered  with  a  slide  of  rock. 

Against  this  slide,  in  the  days  when  they  were 
marking  time,  Bud  and  his  pardner  had  directed 
their  energies,  throwing  the  loose  stones  aside,  build 
ing  up  walls  against  the  slip,  and  clearing  the  way 
to  the  solid  schist.  There,  somewhere  beneath  the 
jumble  of  powder-riven  rock,  lay  the  ledge  which, 
if  they  found  it,  would  make  them  rich;  and  now, 
with  single-jack  and  drill,  they  attacked  the  last 
huge  fragments,  blasting  them  into  pieces  and 
groveling  deeper  until  they  could  strike  the  contact, 
where  the  schist  and  porphyry  met  and  the  gold 
spray  had  spewed  up  between. 

It  was  slow  work;  slower  than  they  had  thought, 
and  the  gang  of  Mexicans  that  they  had  hired  for 
muckers  were  marvels  of  ineptitude.  Left  to  them 
selves,  they  accomplished  nothing,  since  each 
problem  they  encountered  seemed  to  present  to  them 
some  element  of  insuperable  difficulty,  to  solve  which 
they  either  went  into  caucus  or  waited  for  the  boss. 
Meanwhile  they  kept  themselves  awake  by  smoking 
cigarettes  and  telling  stories  about  Bernardo  Bravo. 

To  the  Mexicans  of  Sonora  Bernardo  Bravo  was 
the  personification  of  all  the  malevolent  qualities- 
he  being  a  bandit  chief  who  had  turned  first  general 


THE   DESERT  TRAIL  117 

and  then  rebel  under  Madero — and  the  fact  that  he 
had  at  last  been  driven  out  of  Chihuahua  and  there 
fore  over  into  Sonora,  made  his  malevolence  all  the 
more  imminent. 

Undoubtedly,  somewhere  over  to  the  east,  where 
the  Sierras  towered  like  a  blue  wall,  Bernardo  and 
1  his  outlaw  followers  were  gathering  for  a  raid,  and 
the  raid  would  bring  death  to  Sonora. 

He  was  a  bad  man,  this  Bernardo  Bravo,  and  if 
half  of  the  current  stories  were  true,  he  killed  men 
whenever  they  failed  to  give  him  money,  and  was 
never  too  hurried  to  take  a  fair  daughter  of  the 
country  up  behind  him,  provided  she  took  his  fancy. 

Yes,  surely  he  was  a  bad  man — but  that  did  not 
clear  away  the  rock. 

For  the  first  week  Phil  took  charge  of  the  gang, 
urging,  directing,  and  cajoling  them,  and  the  work 
went  merrily  on,  though  rather  slowly.  The  Mex 
icans  liked  to  work  for  Don  Felipe,  he  was  so  polite 
and  spoke  such  good  Spanish;  but  at  the  end  of  the 
week  it  developed  that  Bud  could  get  more  results 
out  of  them. 

Every  time  Phil  started  to  explain  anything  to 
one  Mexican  all  the  others  stopped  to  listen  to  him, 
and  that  took  time.  But  Bud's  favorite  way  of 
directing  a  man  was  by  grunts  and  signs  and  bending 
his  own  back  to  the  task.  Also,  he  refused  to  under 
stand  Spanish,  and  cut  off  all  long-winded  explana 
tions  and  suggestions  by  an  impatient  motion  to  go 
to  work,  which  the  trabajadores  obeyed  with  shrugs 
and  grins. 

So  Don   Felipe   turned   powder-man   and   black- 


n8  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

smith,  sharpening  up  the  drills  at  the  little  forge 
they  had  fashioned  and  loading  the  holes  with 
dynamite  when  it  became  necessary  to  break  a  rock, 
while  Bud  bossed  the  unwilling  Mexicans. 

In  an  old  tunnel  behind  their  tent  they  set  a 
heavy  gate,  and  behind  it  they  stored  their  precious 
powder.  Then  came  the  portable  forge  and  the 
blacksmith-shop,  just  inside  the  mouth  of  the  cave, 
and  the  tent  backed  up  against  it  for  protection. 
For  if  there  is  any  one  thing,  next  to  horses,  that  the 
rebels  are  wont  to  steal,  it  is  giant  powder  to  blow 
up  culverts  with,  or  to  lay  on  the  counters  of  timorous 
country  merchants  and  frighten  them  into  making 
contributions. 

As  for  their  horses,  Bud  kept  them  belled  and 
hobbled,  close  to  the  house,  and  no  one  ever  saw  him 
without  his  gun.  In  the  morning,  when  he  got  up, 
he  took  it  from  under  his  pillow  and  hung  it  on  his 
belt,  and  there  it  stayed  until  bedtime. 

He  also  kept  a  sharp  watch  on  the  trail,  above 
and  below,  and  what  few  men  did  pass  through 
were  conscious  of  his  eye.  Therefore  it  was  all  the 
more  surprising  when,  one  day,  looking  up  suddenly 
from  heaving  at  a  great  rock,  he  saw  the  big  Yaqui 
soldier,  Amigo,  gazing  down  at  him  from  the  cut 
bank. 

Yes,  it  was  the  same  man,  yet  with  a  difference — 
his  rifle  and  cartridge-belts  were  absent  and  his 
clothes  were  torn  by  the  brush.  But  the  same 
good-natured,  competent  smile  was  there,  and  after 
a  few  words  with  Bud  he  leaped  nimbly  down  the 
bank  and  laid  hold  upon  the  rock.  They  pulled 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  119 

together,  and  the  boulder  that  had  balked  Bud's 
gang  of  Mexicans  moved  easily  for  the  two  of  them. 

Then  Amigo  seized  a  crowbar  and  slipped  it  into 
a  cranny  and  showed  them  a  few  things  about  mov 
ing  rocks.  For  half  an  hour  or  more  he  worked 
along,  seemingly  bent  on  displaying  his  skill,  then 
he  sat  down  on  the  bank  and  watched  the  Mexicans 
with  tolerant,  half-amused  eyes. 

If  he  was  hungry  he  showed  it  only  by  the  cigar 
ettes  he  smoked,  and  Hooker,  studying  upon  the 
chances  he  would  take  by  hiring  a  deserter,  let  him. 
wait  until  he  came  to  a  decision. 

"Oyez,  Amigo,"  he  hailed  at  last  and,  rubbing  his 
hand  around  on  his  stomach  he  smiled  questioningly, 
whereat  the  Yaqui  nodded  his  head  avidly. 

"Stowano!"  said  Hooker.  "  Fen."  And  he  left 
his  Mexicans  to  dawdle  as  they  would  while  he  led 
the  Indian  to  camp.  There  he  showed  him  the  coffee 
pot  and  the  kettle  of  beans  by  the  fire,  set  out  a 
slab  of  Dutch-oven  bread  and  a  sack  of  jerked  beef, 
some  stewed  fruit  and  a  can  of  sirup,  and  left  him 
to  do  his  worst. 

In  the  course  of  half  an  hour  or  so  he  came  back 
and  found  the  Yaqui  sopping  up  sirup  with  the  last  of 
the  bread  and  humming  a  little  tune.  So  they  sat 
down  and  smoked  a  cigarette  and  came  to  the 
business  at  hand. 

"Where  you  go?"  inquired  Bud;  but  Amigo  only 
shrugged  enigmatically. 

"You  like  to  work?"  continued  Bud,  and  the 
Indian  broke  into  a  smile  of  assent. 

" Muy   bien"  said  Hooker  with  finality;    "I  give 


120  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

Mexicans  two  dollars  a  day — I  give  you  four.  Is 
that  enough?" 

"Sz,"  nodded  the  Yaqui,  and  without  more  words 
he  followed  Bud  back  to  the  cut.  There,  in  half  a 
day,  he  accomplished  more  than  all  the  Mexicans 
put  together,  leaping  boldly  up  the  bank  to  dis 
lodge  hanging  boulders,  boosting  them  by  main 
strength  up  onto  the  ramshackle  tram  they  had 
constructed,  and  trundling  them  out  to  the  dump 
with  the  shove  of  a  mighty  hand. 

He  was  a  willing  worker,  using  his  head  every 
minute;  but  though  he  was  such  a  hustler  and  made 
their  puny  efforts  seem  so  ineffectual  by  compari 
son,  he  managed  in  some  mysterious  way  to  gain 
the  immediate  approval  of  the  Mexicans.  Per 
haps  it  was  his  all-pervasive  good  nature,  or  the 
respect  inspired  by  his  hardihood;  perhaps  the 
qualities  of  natural  leadership  which  had  made 
him  a  picked  man  among  his  brother  Yaquis.  But 
when,  late  in  the  afternoon,  Bud  came  back  from  a 
trip  to  the  tent  he  found  Amigo  in  charge  of  the 
gang,  heaving  and  struggling  and  making  motions 
with  his  head. 

"Good  enough!"  he  muttered,  after  watching  him 
for  a  minute  in  silence,  and  leaving  the  new  boss  in 
command,  he  went  back  and  started  supper. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  day  at  the 
Eagle  Tail,  and  when  De  Lancey  came  back  from 
town — whither  he  went  whenever  he  could  conjure 
up  an  errand — he  found  that,  for  once,  he  had  not 
been  missed. 

Bud   was   doing   the   blacksmithing,  Amigo  was 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  121 

directing  the  gang,  and  a  fresh  mess  of  beans  was 
on  the  fire,  the  first  kettleful  having  gone  to  reen- 
force  the  Yaqui's  backbone.  But  they  were  beans  well 
spent,  and  Bud  did  not  regret  the  raid  on  his  grub- 
pile.  If  he  could  get  half  as  much  work  for  what  he 
fed  the  Mexicans  he  could  well  rest  content. 

"But  how  did  this  Indian  happen  to  find  you?" 
demanded  Phil,  when  his  pardner  had  explained 
his  acquisition.  "Say,  he  must  have  deserted  from 
his  company  when  they  brought  them  back  from 
Moctezuma ! " 

"More'n  likely,"  assented  Bud.  "He  ain't  talk 
ing  much,  but  I  notice  he  keeps  his  eye  out — they'd 
shoot  him  for  a  deserter  if  they  could  ketch  him. 
I'd  hate  to  see  him  go  that  way." 

"Well,  if  he's  as  good  as  this,  let's  take  care  of 
him!"  cried  Phil  with  enthusiasm.  "I'll  tell  you, 
Bud,  there's  something  big  coming  off  pretty  soon 
and  I'd  like  to  stay  around  town  a  little  more  if  I 
could.  I  want  to  keep  track  of  things." 

"F'r  instance?"  suggested  Hooker  dryly.  It  had 
struck  him  that  Phil  was  spending  a  good  deal  of 
time  in  town  already. 

"Well,  there's  this  revolution.  Sure  as  shooting 
they're  going  to  pull  one  soon.  There's  two  thou 
sand  Mexican  miners  working  at  Fortuna,  and  they 
say  every  one  of  'em  has  got  a  rifle  buried.  Now 
they're  beginning  to  quit  and  drift  out  into  the 
hills,  and  we're  likely  to  hear  from  them  any  time." 

"All  the  more  reason  for  staying  in  camp,  then," 
remarked  Bud.  "I'll  tell  you,  Phil,  I  need  you 
here.  That  dogged  ledge  is  lost,  good  and  plenty, 


122  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

and  I  need  you  to  say  where  to  dig.  We  ain't 
doing  much  better  than  old  Aragon  did — just 
rooting  around  in  that  rock-pile — let's  do  a  little 
timbering,  and  sink." 

"You  can't  timber  that  rock,"  answered  De 
Lancey  decidedly.  "And  besides,  it's  cheaper  to 
make  a  cut  twenty  feet  deep  than  it  is  to  tunnel  or 
sink  a  shaft.  Wait  till  we  get  to  that  porphyry 
contact — then  we'll  know  where  we're  at." 

"All  right,"  grumbled  Bud;  "but  seems  like  we're 
a  long  time  getting  there.  What's  the  news  down 
town?" 

"Well,  the  fireworks  have  begun  again  over  in 
Chihauhua — Orozco  and  Salazar  and  that  bunch — 
but  it  seems  there  was  something  to  this  Moctezuma 
scare,  after  all.  I  was  talking  to  an  American  min 
ing  man  from  down  that  way  and  he  told  me  that 
the  Federals  marched  out  to  where  the  rebels  were 
and  then  sat  down  and  watched  them  cross  the  river 
without  firing  on  them — some  kind  of  an  under 
standing  between  Bernardo  Bravo  and  these  black 
leg  Federals. 

"The  only  fighting  there  was  was  when  a  bunch 
of  twenty  Yaquis  got  away  from  their  officers  in 
the  rough  country  and  went  after  Bernardo  Bravo 
by  their  lonesome.  That  threw  a  big  scare  into  him, 
too,  but  he  managed  to  fight  them  off — and  if  I 
was  making  a  guess  I'd  bet  that  your  Yaqui  friend 
was  one  of  that  fighting  twenty." 

"I  reckon,"  assented  Bud;  "but  don't  you  say 
nothing.  I  need  that  hombre  in  my  business. 
Come  on,  let's  go  up  and  look  at  that  cut — I  come 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  123 

across  an  old  board  to-day,  down  in  the  muck,  and 
I  bet  you  it's  a  piece  that  Kruger  left.  Funny  we 
don't  come  across  some  of  his  tools,  though,  or  the 
hole  where  the  powder  went  off." 

"When  we  do  that,"  observed  Phil,  "we'll  be 
where  we're  going.  Nothing  to  do  then  but  lay  off 
the  men  and  wait  till  I  get  my  papers.  That's  why 
I  say  don't  hurry  so  hard — we  haven't  got  our  title 
to  this  claim,  pardner,  and  we  won't  get  it,  either — 
not  for  some  time  yet.  Suppose  you'd  hit  this 
ledge-" 

"Well,  if  I  hit  it,"  remarked  Bud,  "I'll  stay  with 
it — you  can  trust  me  for  that.  Hello,  what's  the 
Yaqui  found? 

As  they  came  up  the  cut  Amigo  quit  work  and, 
while  the  Mexicans  followed  suit  and  gathered 
expectantly  behind  him,  he  picked  up  three  rusty 
drills  and  an  iron  drill-spoon  and  presented  them  to 
Bud. 

Evidently  he  had  learned  the  object  of  their 
search  from  the  Mexicans,  but  if  he  looked  for  any 
demonstrations  of  delight  at  sight  of  these  much- 
sought-for  tools  he  was  doomed  to  disappointment, 
for  both  Bud  and  Phil  had  schooled  themselves  to 
keep  their  faces  straight. 

"Um-m,"  said  Bud,  "old  drills,  eh?  Where  you 
find  them?" 

The  Yaqui  led  the  way  to  the  face  of  the  cut  and 
showed  the  spot,  a  hole  beneath  the  pile  of  riven 
rock;  and  a  Mexican,  not  to  be  outdone,  grabbed 
up  a  handful  of  powdered  porphyry  and  indicated 
where  the  dynamite  had  pulverized  it. 


i24  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Bieny"  said  Phil,  pawing  solemnly  around  in  the 
bottom  of  the  hole;  and  then,  filling  his  handkerchief 
with  fine  dirt,  he  carried  it  down  to  the  creek. 
There,  in  a  miner's  pan,  he  washed  it  out  carefully, 
slopping  the  waste  over  the  edge  and  swirling  the 
water  around  until  at  last  only  a  little  dirt  was  left 
in  the  bottom  of  the  pan.  Then,  while  all  the 
Mexicans  looked  on,  he  tailed  this  toward  the  edge, 
scanning  the  last  remnant  for  gold — and  quit  with 
out  a  color. 

"Nada!"  he  cried,  throwing  down  the  pan,  and 
in  some  way  the  Mexicans  sensed  the  fact  that 
the  mine  had  turned  out  a  failure.  Three 
times  he  went  back  to  the  cut  and  scooped  up 
the  barren  dust,  and  then  he  told  the  men  they 
could  quit. 

"No  more  work!"  he  said,  affecting  a  dejected 
bitterness.  "No  hay  nada — there  is  nothing!"  And 
.with  this  sad,  but  by  no  means  unusual,  ending  to 
their  labors,  the  Mexicans  went  away  to  their  camp, 
speculating  among  themselves  as  to  whether  they 
could  get  their  pay.  But  when  the  last  of  them  had 
gone  Phil  beckoned  Bud  into  the  tent  and  showed 
nim  a  piece  of  quartz. 

"Just  take  a  look  at  that!"  he  said,  and  a  single 
glance  told  Hooker  that  it  was  full  of  fine  particles 
of  gold. 

"I  picked  that  up  when  they  weren't  looking," 

whispered     De    Lancey,     his     eyes     dancing    with 

triumph.     "It's  the  same  rock — the  same  as  Kru- 

ger's!" 

-     "Well,  put  'er  there,  then,  pardner! "cried  Bud, 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  125 

grabbing   at  'De  Lancey's  hand.     "We've   struck 
it!" 

And  with  a  broad  grin  on  their  deceitful  faces 
they  danced  silently  around  the  tent,  after  which 
they  paid  off  the  Mexicans  and  bade  them  "Adios!" 


XIV 

IT  is  a  great  sensation — striking  it  rich — one  of 
the  greatest  in  the  world. 

Some  men  punch  a  burro  over  the  desert 
all  their  lives  in  the  hope  of  achieving  it  once;  Bud 
and  Phil  had  taken  a  chance,  and  the  prize  lay 
within  their  grasp.  Only  a  little  while  now — a 
month,  maybe,  if  the  officials  were  slow — and  the 
title  would  be  theirs. 

The  Mexican  miners,  blinded  by  their  ignorance, 
went  their  way,  well  contented  to  get  their  money. 
Nobody  knew.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
wait.  But  to  wait,  as  some  people  know,  is  the 
hardest  work  in  the  world. 

For  the  first  few  days  they  lingered  about  the 
mine,  gloating  over  it  in  secret,  laughing  back  and 
forth,  singing  gay  songs — then,  as  the  ecstasy  passed 
and  the  weariness  of  waiting  set  in,  they  went  two 
ways.  Some  fascination,  unexplained  to  Bud,  drew 
De  Lancey  to  the  town.  He  left  in  the  morning  and 
came  back  at  night,  but  Hooker  stayed  at  the  mine. 

Day  and  night,  week-days  and  Sundays,  he 
watched  it  jealously,  lest  some  one  should  slip  in 
and  surprise  their  secret — and  for  company  he  had 
his  pet  horse,  Copper  Bottom,  and  the  Yaqui  Indian, 
Amigo. 

Ignacio  was  the  Indian's  real  name,  for  the  Yaquis 

126 


THE   DESERT  TRAIL  127 

are  all  good  Catholics  and  named  uniformly  after 
the  saints;  but  Bud  had  started  to  call  him  Amigo, 
or  friend,  and  Ignacio  had  conferred  the  same  name 
on  him. 

Poor  Ignacio!  his  four-dollar-a-day  job  had  gone 
glimmering  in  half  a  day,  but  when  the  Mexican 
laborers  departed  he  lingered  around  the  camp, 
doing  odd  jobs,  until  he  won  a  place  for  himself. 

At  night  he  slept  up  in  the  rocks,  where  no  treach 
ery  could  take  him  unaware,  but  at  the  first  peep  of 
dawn  it  was  always  Amigo  who  arose  and  lit  the  fire. 

Then,  if  no  one  got  up,  he  cooked  a  breakfast  after 
his  own  ideas,  boiling  the  coffee  until  it  was  as  strong 
as  lye,  broiling  meat  on  sticks,  and  went  to  turn  out 
the  horses. 

With  the  memory  of  many  envious  glances  cast 
at  Copper  Bottom,  Hooker  had  built  a  stout  corral, 
where  he  kept  the  horses  up  at  night,  allowing  them 
to  graze  close-hobbled  in  the  daytime. 

A  Mexican  insurrecto  on  foot  is  a  contradiction  of 
terms,  if  there  are  any  horses  or  mules  in  the  country, 
and  several  bands  of  ex-miners  from  Fortuna  had 
gone  through  their  camp  in  that  condition,  with 
new  rifles  in  their  hands.  But  if  they  had  any 
designs  on  the  Eagle  Tail  live  stock  they  speedily 
gave  them  up;  for,  while  he  would  feed  them  and 
even  listen  to  their  false  tales  of  patriotism,  Bud 
had  no  respect  for  numbers  when  it  came  to  admiring 
his  horse. 

Even  with  the  Yaqui,  much  as  he  trusted  him,  he 
had  reservations  about  Copper  Bottom;  and  once, 
when  he  found  him  petting  him  and  stroking  his 


128  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

nose,  he  shook  his  head  forbiddingly.  And  from  that 
day  on,  though  he  watered  Copper  Bottom  and  cared 
for  his  wants,  Amigo  was  careful  never  to  caress 
him.  v 

But  in  all  other  matters,  even  to  lending  him  his 
gun,  Bud  trusted  the  Yaqui  absolutely.  It  was 
about  a  week  after  he  came  to  camp  that  Amigo 
sighted  a  deer,  and  when  Bud  lent  him  his  rifle  he 
killed  it  with  a  single  shot. 

Soon  afterward  he  came  loping  back  from  a  scout 
ing  trip  and  made  signs  for  the  gun  again,  and 
this  time  he  brought  in  a  young  peccary,  which  he 
roasted  in  a  pit,  Indian  style.  After  that,  when  the 
meat  was  low,  Bud  sent  him  out  to  hunt,  and  each 
time  he  brought  back  a  wild  hog  or  a  deer  for  every 
cartridge. 

The  one  cross  under  which  the  Yaqui  suffered  was 
the  apparent  failure  of  the  mine  and,  after  slipping 
up  into  the  cut  a  few  times,  he  finally  came  back 
radiant. 

"Mira!"  he  said,  holding  out  a  piece  of  rock;  and 
when  Hooker  gazed  at  the  chunk  of  quartz  he  pointed 
to  the  specks  of  gold  and  grunted  "Oro!" 

"Seguro!"  answered  Bud,  and  going  down  into 
his  pocket,  he  produced  another  like  it.  At  this 
the  Yaqui  cocked  his  head  to  one  side  and  regarded 
him  strangely. 

-"Why  you  no  dig  gold?"  he  asked  at  last,  and 
then  Bud  told  him  his  story. 

"We  have  an  enemy,"  he  said,  "who  might  steal 
it  from  us.  So  now  we  wait  for  papers.  When 
we  get  them,  we  dig!" 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  129 

"Ah!"  breathed  Amigo,  his  face  suddenly  clear 
ing  up.  "And  can  I  work  for  you  then?" 

"S{,"  answered  Bud,  "for  four  dollars  a  day. 
But  now  you  help  me  watch,  so  nobody  comes." 

"Stawano!"  exclaimed  the  Indian,  well  satis 
fied,  and  after  that  he  spent  hours  on  the  hilltop, 
his  black  head  thrust  out  over  the  crest  like  a  chucka- 
walla  lizard  as  he  conned  the  land  below. 

So  the  days  went  by  until  three  weeks  had  passed 
and  still  no  papers  came.  As  his  anxiety  increased 
Phil  fell  into  the  habit  of  staying  in  town  overnight, 
and  finally  he  was  gone  for  two  days.  The  third 
day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  Bud  was  getting 
restless,  when  suddenly  he  beheld  the  Yaqui  bound 
ing  down  the  hill  in  great  leaps  and  making  signs 
down  the  canon. 

"Two  men,"  he  called,  dashing  up  to  the  tent; 
"one  of  them  a  rural!" 

"Why  a  rural?"  asked  Bud,  mystified. 

"To  take  me!"  cried  Amigo,  striking  himself 
vehemently  on  the  breast.  "Lend  me  your  rifle!" 

"No,"  answered  Bud,  after  a  pause;  "you  might 
get  me  into  trouble.  Run  and  hide  in  the  rocks — 
I  will  signal  you  when  to  come  back." 

" Muy  bien"  said  the  Yaqui  obediently  and, 
turning,  he  went  up  over  rocks  like  a  mountain- 
sheep,  bounding  from  boulder  to  boulder  until  he 
disappeared  among  the  hilltops.  Then,  as  Bud 
brought  in  his  horse  and  shut  him  hastily  inside 
the  corral,  the  two  riders  came  around  the  point — 
a  rural  and  Aragon! 

Now  in  Mexico  a  rural,  as  Bud  well  knew,  means 


ISO  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

trouble — and  Aragon  meant  more  trouble,  trouble  for 
him.  Certainly,  so  busy  a  man  as  Don  Cipriano 
would  not  come  clear  to  his  camp  to  help  capture  a 
Yaqui  deserter.  Bud  sensed  it  from  the  start  that 
this  was  another  attempt  to  get  possession  of  their 
mine,  and  he  awaited  their  coming  grimly. 

"S  tardes"  he  said  in  reply  to  the  rural9 s  salute, 
and  then  he  stood  silent  before  his  tent,  looking 
them  over  shrewdly.  The  rural  was  a  hard-looking 
citizen,  as  many  of  them  are,  but  on  this  occasion  he 
seemed  a  trifle  embarrassed,  glancing  inquiringly  at 
Aragon.  As  for  Aragon,  he  was  gazing  at  a  long 
line  of  jerked  meat  which  Amigo  had  hung  out  to  dry, 
and  his  drooped  eyes  opened  up  suddenly  as  he 
turned  his  cold  regard  upon  Hooker. 

"  Senor,"  he  said,  speaking  with  an  accusing 
harshness,  "we  are  looking  for  the  men  who  are 
stealing  my  cattle,  and  I  see  we  have  not  far  to  go. 
Where  did  you  get  that  meat?" 

"I  got  it  from  a  deer,"  returned  Bud.  "There  is 
his  hide  on  the  fence;  you  can  see  it  if  you'll  look." 

The  rural,  glad  to  create  a  diversion,  rode  over 
and  examined  the  hide  and  came  back  satisfied,  but 
Aragon  was  not  so  easily  appeased. 

"By  what  right,"  he  demanded  truculently,  "do 
you,  an  American,  kill  deer  in  our  country?  Have 
you  the  special  permit  which  is  required?" 

"No,  senor"  answered  Hooker  soberly;  "the 
deer  was  killled  by  a  Mexican  I  have  working  for 


me/ 


"Ha!"    sneered    Aragon,    and    then    he    paused, 
balked. 


THE   DESERT  TRAIL 

" Where  is  this  Mexican?"  inquired  the  rural, 
his  professional  instincts  aroused,  and  while  Bud 
was  explaining  that  he  was  out  in  the  hills  some 
where,  Aragon  spurred  his  horse  up  closer  and  peerecl 
curiously  into  his  tent. 

"What  are  you  looking  for?"  demanded  Hooker 
sharply,  and  then  Aragon  showed  his  hand. 

"I  am  looking  for  the  drills  and  drillspoon," 
he  said;  "the  ones  you  stole  when  you  took  my 
mine!" 

"Then  get  back  out  of  there,"  cried  Bud,  seizing 
his  horse  by  the  bit  and  throwing  him  back  on  his 
haunches;  "and  stay  out!"  he  added,  as  he  dropped 
his  hand  to  his  gun.  "But  if  the  rural  wishes  to 
search,"  he  said,  turning  to  that  astounded  official, 
"he  is  welcome  to  do  so." 

" Muchas  gracias,  no!"  returned  the  rural,  shaking 
a  finger  in  front  of  his  face,  and  then  he  strode  over 
to  where  Aragon  was  muttering  and  spoke  in  a  low 
tone. 

"No!"  dissented  Aragon,  shaking  his  head  vio 
lently.  "No — no!  I  want  this  man  arrested!" 
he  cried,  turning  vindictively  upon  Bud.  "He  has 
stolen  my  tools — my  mine — my  land!  He  has  no 
business  here — no  title!  This  land  is  mine,  and  I 
tell  him  to  go!  Pronto!"  he  shouted,  menacing 
Hooker  with  his  riding-whip,  but  Bud  only  shifted 
his  feet  and  stopped  listening  to  his  excited  Spanish. 

"No,  senor,"  he  said,  when  it  was  all  over,  "this 
claim  belongs  to  my  pardner,  De  Lancey.  You 
have  no — ': 

"Ha!     De    Lancey!"    jeered    Aragon,    suddenly 


1 32  THE   DESERT  TRAIL 

indulging  himself  in  a  sardonic  laugh.  "De  Lancey! 
Ha,  ha!" 

"What's  the  matter ?"  cried  Hooker,  as  the  rural 
joined  in  with  a  derisive  smirk.  "Say,  speak  up, 
hombre!"  he  threatened,  stepping  closer  as  his 
eyes  took  on  a  dangerous  gleam.  "And  let  me  tell 
you  now,"  he  added,  "that  if  any  man  touches  a 
hair  of  his  head  I'll  kill  him  like  a  dog!" 

The  rural  backed  his  horse  away,  as  if  suddenly 
discovering  that  the  American  was  dangerous,  and 
then,  saluting  respectfully  as  he  took  his  leave,  he 
said: 

"The  Senor  De  Lancey  is  in  jail!" 

They  whirled  their  horses  at  that  and  galloped  off 
down  the  canon,  and  as  Bud  gazed  after  them  he 
burst  into  a  frenzy  of  curses.  Then,  with  the  one 
thought  of  setting  Phil  free,  he  ran  out  to  the  corral 
and  hurled  the  saddle  on  his  horse. 

It  was  through  some  chicanery,  he  knew — some 
low-down  trick  on  the  part  of  Aragon — that  his 
pardner  had  been  imprisoned,  and  he  swore  to  have 
him  out  or  know  the  reason  why.  Either  that  or 
he  would  go  after  Aragon  and  take  it  out  of  his  hide. 

It  was  outside  Bud's  simple  code  even  to  question 
his  pardner's  innocence;  but,  innocent  or  guilty,  he 
would  have  him  out  if  he  had  to  tear  down  the  jail. 

So  he  slapped  his  saddle-gun  ,into  the  sling, 
reached  for  his  quirt,  and  went  dashing  down  the 
canon.  At  a  turn  in  the  road  he  came  suddenly 
upon  Aragon  and  the  rural,  split  a  way  between 
them,  and  leaned  forward  as  Copper  Bottom 
burned  up  the  trail. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  133 

It  was  long  since  the  shiny  sorrel  had  been  given 
his  head,  and  he  needed  neither  whip  not  spurs — 
but  a  mile  or  two  down  the  arroyo  Bud  suddenly 
reined  him  in  and  looked  behind.  Then  he  turned 
abruptly  up  the  hillside  and  jumped  him  out  on  a 
point,  looked  again,  and  rode  slowly  back  up  the 
trail. 

Aragon  and  the  rural  were  not  in  sight — the  ques 
tion  was,  were  they  following?  For  a  short  distance 
he  rode  warily,  not  to  be  surprised  in  his  suspicion; 
then,  as  he  found  tracks  turning  back,  he  gave 
head  to  his  horse  and  galloped  swiftly  to  camp. 

The  horses  of  the  men  he  sought  stood  at  the  edge 
of  the  mine-dump  and,  throwing  his  bridle  rein 
down  beside  them,  Bud  leaped  off  and  ran  up  the  cut. 
Then  he  stopped  short  and  reached  for  his  six- 
shooter.  The  two  men  were  up  at  the  end,  down  on 
their  knees,  and  digging  like  dogs  after  a  rabbit. 

So  eager  were  they  in  their  search,  so  confident 
in  their  fancied  security,  that  they  never  looked  up 
from  their  work,  and  the  tramp,  of  Hooker's  boots 
was  drowned  by  their  grubbing  until  he  stood  above 
them.  There  he  paused,  his  pistol  in  hand,  and 
waited  grimly  for  developments. 

"Ha!"  cried  Aragon,  grabbing  at  a  piece  of  quartz 
that  came  up.  "AquiloUngo!"  He  drew  a  second 
piece  from  his  pocket  and  placed  them  together. 
"It  is  the  same!"  he  said. 

Still  half-buried  in  the  excavation,  he  turned 
suddenly,  as  a  shadow  crossed  him,  to  get  the  light, 
,and  his  jaw  dropped  at  the  sight  of  Bud. 

"I'll  trouble  you  for  that  rock,"  observed  Bud, 


134  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

holding  out  his  hand,  and  as  the  rural  jumped, 
Aragon  handed  over  the  ore.  There  was  a  moment's 
silence  as  Bud  stood  over  them — then  he  stepped 
back  and  motioned  them  out  with  his  gun. 

Down  the  jagged  cut  they  hurried,  awed  into  a 
guilty  silence  by  his  anger,  and  when  he  let  them 
mount  without  a  word  the  rural  looked  back, 
surprised.  Even  then  Bud  said  nothing,  but  the 
swing  of  the  Texan's  gun  spoke  for  him,  and  they 
rode  quickly  out  of  sight. 

"You  dad-burned  greasers!"  growled  Bud,  re 
turning  his  pistol  with  a  jab  to  its  holster.  Then 
he  looked  at  the  ore.  There  were  two  pieces,  one 
fresh-dug  and  the  other  worn,  and  as  he  gazed  at 
them  the  worn  piece  seemed  strangely  familiar. 
Aragon  had  been  comparing  them — but  where  had 
he  got  the  worn  piece? 

Once  more  Bud  looked  it  over,  and  then  the  rock 
fell  from  his  hand.  It  was  the  first  piece  they  had 
found — the  piece  that  belonged  to  Phil! 


XV 

WHEN  the  solid  earth  quakes,  though  it 
move  but  a  thousandth  of  an  inch  be 
neath  our  feet,  the  human  brain  reels 
and  we  become  dizzy,  sick,  and  afraid.  So,  too,  at 
the  thought  that  some  trusted  friend  has  played  us 
false,  the  mind  turns  back  upon  itself  and  we 
doubt  the  stability  of  everything — for  a  moment. 
Then,  as  we  find  all  the  trees  straight  up,  the  world 
intact,  and  the  hills  in  their  proper  places,  we  cast 
the  treacherous  doubts  aside  and  listen  to  the 
voice  of  reason. 

For  one  awful  moment  Hooker  saw  himself 
betrayed  by  his  friend,  either  through  weakness  or 
through  guile;  and  then  his  mind  straightened  itself 
and  he  remembered  that  Phil  was  in  jail. 

What  more  natural,  then,  than  that  the  rurales 
should  search  his  pockets  and  give  the  ore  to  Ara- 
gon  ?  He  stooped  and  picked  up  the  chunk  of  rock — 
that  precious,  pocket-worn  specimen  that  had 
brought  them  the  first  sure  promise  of  success — 
and  wiped  it  on  his  sleeve. 

Mechanically  he  placed  it  beside  the  other  piece 
which  Aragon  had  gouged  from  the  ledge,  and  while 
he  gazed  at  them  he  wondered  what  to  do — to  leave 
their  mine  and  go  to  his  friend,  or  to  let  his  friend 
wait  and  stand  guard  by  their  treasure — and  his 
heart  told  him  to  go  to  his  friend. 

135 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

So  he  swung  up  on  his  horse  and  followed  slowly, 
and  as  soon  as  it  was  dark  he  rode  secretly  through 
Old  Fortuna  and  on  till  he  came  to  the  jail.  It  was 
a  square  stone  structure,  built  across  the  street 
from  the  cantina  in  order  to  be  convenient  for  "the 
drunks,  and  as  Bud  rode  up  close  and  stared  at  it, 
some  one  hailed  him  through  the  bars. 

"Hello  there,  pardner,"  called  Hooker,  swinging 
down  and  striding  over  to  the  black  window,  "how 
long  have  they  had  you  in  here?" 

"Two  days,"  answered  Phil  from  the  inner 
darkness;  "but  it  seems  like  a  lifetime  to  me,  Say, 
Bud,  there's  a  Mexican  in  here  that's  got  the  jim- 
jams — regular  tequila  jag — can't  you  get  me  out?" 

"Well,  I  sure  will!"  answered  Bud.  "What  have 
they  got  you  in  for?  Where's  our  friend,  Don  Juan  ? 
Why  didn't  he  let  me  know?" 

"You  can  search  me ! "  railed  De  Lancey .  " Seems 
like  everybody  quits  you  down  here  the  minute  you 
get  into  trouble.  I  got  arrested  night  before  last 
by  those  damned  rurales — Manuel  Del  Rey  was 
behind  it,  you  can  bet  your  life  on  that — and  I've 
been  here  ever  since!" 

"Well,  what  are  you  pinched  for?  Who  do  I  go 
and  see?" 

"Pinched  for  nothing!"  cried  De  Lancey  bitterly. 
"Pinched  because  I'm  a  Mexican  citizen  and  can't 
protect  myself!  I'm  incomunicado  for  three  days!" 

"Well,  I'll  get  you  out,  all  right,"  said  Hooker, 
leaning  closer  against  the  bars.  "Here,  have  a 
smoke — did  they  frisk  you  of  your  makings  ? " 

"No,"  snapped  De  Lancey  crossly,  "but  Pm  out 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  137 

of  everything  by  this  time.  Bud,  I  tell  you  I've  had 
a  time  of  it!  They  threw  me  in  here  with  this 
crazy,  murdering  Mexican  and  I  haven't  had  a 
wink  of  sleep  for  two  days.  He's  quiet  now,  but 
I  don't  want  any  more." 

"Well,  say,"  began  Bud  again,  "what  are  you 
charged  with?  Maybe  I  can  grease  somebody's 
paw  and  get  you  out  tonight!" 

There  was  an  awkward  pause  at  this,  and  finally 
De  Lancey  dropped  his  white  face  against  the  bars 
and  his  voice  became  low  and  beseeching. 

"I'll  tell  you,;Bud,"  he  said,  "I  haven't  been  quite 
on  the  square  with  you — I've  been  holding  out  a 
little.  But  you  know  how  it  is — when  a  fellow's  in 
love.  I've  been  going  to  see  Gracia!" 

"Oh!"  commented  Hooker,  and  stood  very  quiet 
while  he  waited. 

"Yes,  I've  been  going  to  see  her,"  hurried  on  Phil. 
"I  know  I  promised;  but  honest,  Bud,  I  couldn't 
help  it.  It  just  seemed  as  if  my  whole  being  was 
wrapped  up  in  her,  and  I  had  to  do  it.  She'd  be 
looking  for  me  when  I  came  and  went — and  then  I 
fixed  it  with  her  maid  to  take  her  a  letter.  And 
then  I  met  her  secretly,  back  by  the  garden  gate. 
You  know  they've  got  some  holes  punched  in  the 
wall — loopholed  during  the  fight  last  summer — 
and  we'd—" 

"Sure,  I'll  take  your  word  for  that,"  broke  in 
Hooker  harshly.  "But  get  to  the  point!  What  are 
you  pinched  for?" 

"Well,"  went  on  De  Lancey,  his  voice  quavering 
at  the  reproof,  "I  was  going  to  tell  you,  if  you'll 


i3»  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

listen  to  me.  Somebody  saw  us  there  and  told 
Aragon — he  shut  her  up  for  a  punishment  and  she 
slipped  me  out  a  note.  She  was  lonely,  she  said. 
And  that  night — well,  I  couldn't  stand  it — I  hired 
the  string  band  and  we  went  down  there  in  a  hack 
to  give  her  a  serenade.  But  this  cad,  Manuel  del 
Rey,  who  has  been  acting  like  a  jealous  ass  all  along, 
swooped  down  on  us  with  a  detachment  of  his  rurales 
and  took  us  all  to  jail.  He  let  the  musicians  out 
the  next  morning,  but  I've  been  here  ever  since/* 

"  Yes,  and  what  are  you  charged  with  ?"  demanded 
Bud  bruskly. 

"Drunk,"  confessed  Phil,  and  Bud  grunted. 

"Huh!"  he  said,  "and  me  out  watching  that 
mine  night  and  day!" 

"Oh,  I  know  I've  done  you  dirt,  Bud,"  wailed 
De  Lancey;  "but  I  didn't  mean  to,  and  I'll  never  do 
it  again." 

"Never  do  what?"  inquired  Bud  roughly. 

"I  won't  touch  another  drop  of  booze  as  long  as 
I'm  in  Mexico!"  cried  Phil.  "Not  a  drop!" 

"And  how  about  the  girl?"  continued  Bud 
inexorably.  "Her  old  man  was  out  and  tried  to 
jump  our  mine  to-day — how  about  her?" 

"Well,"  faltered  De  Lancey,  "I'll— she—  ' 

"You  know  your  promise!"  reminded  Bud. 

"Yes;  I  know.  But — oh,  Bud,  if  you  knew  how 
loyal  I've  been  to  you — if  you  knew  what  offers  I've 
resisted — the  mine  stands  in  my  name,  you  know." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  Aragon  came  around  to  me  last  week  and 
said  if  I'd  give  him  a  half  interest  in  it  he'd — well. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  139 

never  mind — it  was  a  great  temptation.  But  did 
I  fall  for  it?  Not  on  your  life!  I  know  you,  Bud, 
and  I  know  you're  honest — you'd  stay  by  me  to  the 
last  ditch,  and  I'll  do  the  same  by  you.  But  I'm 
in  love,  Bud,  and  that  would  make  a  man  forget 
his  promise  if  he  wasn't  true  as  steel," 

"Yes,"  commented  Hooker  dryly.  "I  don't 
reckon  I  can  count  on  you  much  from  now  on. 
Here,  take  a  look  at  this  and  see  what  you  make  of 
it."  He  drew  the  piece  of  ore  that  he  had  taken 
from  Aragon  from  his  pocket  and  held  it  up  in  the 
moonlight.  "Well,  feel  of  it,  then,"  he  said. 
"Shucks,  you  ought  to  know  that  piece  of  rock, 
Phil — it's  the  first  one  we  found  in  our  mine!" 

"No!"  exclaimed  De  Lancey,  starting  back. 
"Why — where'd  you  get  it?" 

"Never  mind  where  I  got  it!"  answered  Hooker. 
"The  question  is:  What  did  you  do  with  it?" 

"Well,  I  might  as  well  come  through  with  it," 
confessed  Phil,  the  last  of  his  assurance  gone.  "I 
gave  it  to  Gracia!" 

"And  I  took  it  away  from  Aragon,"  continued 
Bud,  "while  he  was  digging  some  more  chunks 
out  of  our  mine.  So  that  is  youridea  of  being  true  as 
steel,  is  it?  You've  done  noble  by  me  and  Krueer, 
haven't  you?  Yes,  you've  been  a  good  pardner, 
I  don't  think!" 

"Well,  don't  throw  me  down,  Bud!"  pleaded  Phil. 
"There's  some  mistake  somewhere.  Her  father 
must  have  found  it  and  taken  it  away!  I'd  stake 
my  life  on  it  that  Gracia  would  never  betray  me!" 

"Well,  think  it  over  for  a  while,"  suggested  Bud, 


1 40  THE   DESERT  TRAIL 

edging  his  words  with  sarcasm.     "I'm  going  up  to 
the  hotel!" 

"No;  come  back!"  cried  De  Lancey,  clamoring 
at  the  bars.  "Come  on  back,  Bud!  Here!"  he 
said,  thrusting  his  hand  out  through  the  heavy 
irons.  "I'll  give  you  my  word  for  it — I  won't  see 
her  again  until  we  get  our  title!  Will  that  satisfy 
you?  Then  give  me  your  hand,  pardner — I'm 
sorry  I  did  you  wrong!" 

"It  ain't  me,"  replied  Hooker  soberly,  as  he 
took  the  trembling  hand;  "it's  Kruger.  But  if 
you'll  keep  your  word,  Phil,  maybe  we  can  win  out 
yet.  I'm  going*up  to  find  the  comisario." 

A  brief  interview  with  that  smiling  individual  and 
the  case  of  Phil  De  Lancey  was  laid  bare.  He  had 
been  engaged  in  a  desperate  rivalry  with  Manuel 
del  Rey  for  the  hand  of  Gracia  Aragon,  and  his 
present  incarceration  was  not  only  for  singing  rag 
time  beneath  the  Aragon  windows,  but  for  trying 
to  whip  the  captain  of  the  rurales  when  the  latter 
tried  to  place  him  under  arrest. 

And  De  Lancey  was  the  prisoner  not  of  the 
comisario,  but  of  the  captain  of  the  rurales.  Sore 
at  heart,  Bud  rode  up  through  the  Mexican  quarters 
to  the  cuartel  of  the  rurales^  but  the  captain  was 
inexorable. 

"No,  senor"  he  said,  waving  an  eloquent  finger 
before  his  nose,  "I  cannot  release  your  friend.  No, 
senor" 

"But  what  is  he  charged  with,"  persisted  Bud, 
"and  when  is  his  trial?  You  can't  keep  him  shut 
up  without  a  trial." 


THE   DESERT  TRAIL  141 

At  this  the  captain  of  the  ruralfs  lifted  his  eye 
brows  and  one  closely  waxed  mustachio  and  smiled 
mysteriously. 

"Y  como  no?'9  he  inquired.  "And  why  not?  Is 
he  not  a  Mexican  citizen?" 

"Well,  perhaps  he  is/'  thundered  Bud,  suddenly 
rising  to  his  full  height,  "but  I  am  not!  I  am  an 
American,  Senor  Capitan,  and  there  are  other 
Americans!  If  you  hold  my  friend  without  a  trial 
I  will  come  and  tear  your  jail  down — and  the  com- 
isario  will  not  stop  me,  either!" 

"Ah!"  observed  the  dandy  little  captain  shrugging 
his  mustachio  once  more  and  blinking,  and  while 
Hooker  raged  back  and  forth  he  looked  him  over 
appraisingly. 

"One  moment!"  he  said  at  last,  raising  a  quieting 
hand.  "These  are  perilous  times,  senor,  in  which  all 
the  defenders  of  Fortuna  should  stand  together.  I 
do  not  wish  to  have  a  difference  with  the  Americans 
when  Bernardo  Bravo  and  his  men  are  marching 
to  take  our  town.  No,  I  value  the  friendship  of  the 
valiant  Americans  very  highly — so  I  will  let  your 
friend  go.  But  first  he  must  promise  me  one  thing — 
not  to  trouble  the  Senor  Aragon  by  making  further 
love  to  his  daughter!" 

"Very  well!"  replied  Bud.  "He  has  already 
promised  that  to  me;  so  come  on  and  let  him  out.\ 

"To  you?"  repeated  Manuel  del  Rey  with  a 
faint  smile.  "Then,  perhaps — " 

"Perhaps  nothing!"  broke  in  Hooker  shortly. 
"Come  on!" 

He  led  the  way  impatiently  while  the  captain, 


142  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

his  saber  clanking,  strode  out  and  rode  beside 
him.  He  was  not  a  big  man,  this  swashing  captain 
of  the  rural  police,  but  he  was  master,  neverthe 
less,  of  a  great  district,  from  Fortuna  to  the 
line,  with  a  reputation  for  quick  work  in  the  pur 
suance  of  his  duty  as  well  as  in  the  primrose  ways 
of  love. 

In  the  insurrections  and  raidings  of  the  previous 
summer  he  had  given  the  coup  de  grace  with  his 
revolver  to  more  than  one  embryo  bandit,  and  in 
his  love-affairs  he  had  shown  that  he  could  be  equally 
summary. 

The  elegant  Feliz  Luna,  who  for  a  time  had  lin 
gered  near  the  charming  Gracia,  had  finally  found 
himself  up  against  a  pair  of  pistols  with  the  option  of 
either  fighting  Captain  del  Rey  or  returning  to  his 
parents.  The  young  man  concluded  to  beat  a 
retreat.  For  a  like  offense  Philip  De  Lancey  had 
been  unceremoniously  thrown  into  jail;  and  now 
the  capitan  turned  his  attention  to  Bud  Hooker, 
whose  mind  he  had  not  yet  fathomed. 

"Excuse  me,  senor,"  he  said,  after  a  brief  silence, 
"but  your  words  left  me  in  doubt — whether  to 
regard  you  as  a  friend  or  a  rival." 

"What?"  demanded  Bud,  whose  knowledge  of 
Spanish  did  not  extend  to  the  elegancies. 

"You  said,"  explained  the  captain  politely, 
"that  your  friend  had  promised  you  he  would  not 
trouble  the  lady  further.  Does  that  mean  that  you 
are  interested  in  her  yourself,  or  merely  that  you 
perceive  the  hopelessness  of  his  suit  and  wish  to 
protect  him  from  a  greater  evil  that  may  well  befall 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  143 

him?  For  look  you>  senor,  the  girl  is  mine,  and  no 
man  can  come  between  us!" 

"Huh!"  snorted  Bud,  who  caught  the  last  all 
right.  Then  he  laughed  shortly  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "I  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about,"  he  said  gruffly,  "but  he  will  stay  away,  all 
right." 

" Muy  l>ien"  responded  Del  Rey  carelessly  and, 
dismounting  at  the  jail,  he  threw  open  the  door  and 
stood  aside  for  his  rival  to  come  out. 

"Muchas  gracias,  Ssnor  Capitany"  saluted  Bud,  as 
the  door  clanged  to  behind  his  pardner.  But  Phil 
still  bristled  with  anger  and  defiance,  and  the 
captain  perceived  that  there  would  be  no  thanks 
from  him. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  replied,  bowing  politely,  and 
something  in  the  way  he  said  it  made  De  Lancey 
choke  with  rage.  But  there  by  the  cdrcel  door  was 
not  the  place  for  picking  quarrels.  They  went  to 
the  hotel,  where  Don  Juan,  all  apologies  for  his 
apparent  neglect — which  he  excused  on  the  ground 
that  De  Lancey  had  been  held  incomunicado — 
placated  them  as  best  he  could  and  hurried  on  to  the 
news. 

"My  gracious,  Don  Felipe,"  he  cried,  "you  don't 
know  how  sorry  I  was  to  see  you  in  jail,  but  the 
captain's  orders  were  that  no  one  should  go  near  you 
— and  in  Mexico  we  obey  the  rurales,  you  know. 
Otherwise  we  are  placed  against  a  wall  and  shot. 

"But  have  you  heard  the  news  from  down  be 
low?  Ah,  what  terrible  times  they  are  having  there 
— ranches  raided,  women  stolen,  rich  men  held  for 


144  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

ransom!  Yes,  it  is  worse  than  ever!  Already  I  am 
receiving  telegrams  to  prepare  rooms  for  the  refugees, 
and  the  people  are  coming  in  crowds. 

"Our  friend,  the  Sefior  Luna,  and  his  son  Feliz 
have  been  taken  by  Bernardo  Bravo!  Only  by  an 
enormous  ransom  was  he  able  to  save  his  wife 
and  daughters,  and  his  friends  must  now  pay  for 
him. 

"At  the  ranch  of  the  rich  Spaniard,  Alvarez, 
there  has  been  a  great  battle  in  which  the  red- 
flaggers  were  defeated  with  losses.  Now  Bernardo 
Bravo  swears  he  will  avenge  his  men,  and  Alvarez 
has  armed  his  Yaqui  workmen. 

"He  is  a  brave  man,  this  Colonel  Alvarez,  and  his 
Yaquis  are  all  warriors  from  the  hills;  but  Bernardo 
has  gathered  all  the  insurrectos  in  the  country 
together — Campos,  Rojas,  the  brothers  Escaboza — • 
and  they  may  crush  him  with  their  numbers.  But 
now  there  is  other  news — that  they  are  marching 
upon  Fortuna  and  El  Tigre,  to  seize  the  mines  and 
mills  and  hold  the  rich  American  companies  up  for 
ransom. 

"No,  senoreSy  you  must  not  return  to  your  camp. 
Remain  here,  and  you  shall  still  have  your  room, 
though  Spanish  gentlemen  sleep  on  the  floors.  No, 
allow  me,  Don  Felipe!  I  wish  to  show  you  how 
highly  I  value  your  friendship!  Only  because  we 
cannot  disobey  the  rurales  did  I  suffer  you  to  lie  in 
jail;  but  now  you  shall  be  my  guest,  you  shall — " 

"Nope/'  answered  Bud;   "we're  safer  out  at  the 
mine." 
^  He  glanced  at  De  Lancey,  in  whose  mind    rosy 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  145 

visions  were  beginning  to  gather,  and  he,  too, 
declined — with  a  sigh. 

"Make  it  a  bed  for  the  night/'  he  said.  "I've 
got  to  get  out  of  this  town  before  I  tangle  with  Del 
Rey  again  and  find  myself  back  in  jail.  And  now 
lead  me  to  it — I'm  perishing  for  a  bath  and  a  sleep!" 

They  retired  early  and  got  up  early — for  Bud  was 
haunted  by  fears.  But  as  they  passed  through  Old 
Fortuna  the  worst  happened  to  him — they  met 
Gracia,  mounted  on  a  prancing  horse  and  followed 
by  a  rural  guard,  and  she  smote  him  to  the  heart 
with  a  smile. 

It  was  not  a  smile  for  Phil,  gone  astray  and  wound 
ing  by  chance;  it  was  a  dazzling,  admiring  smile 
for  Bud  alone,  and  he  sat  straighter  in  his  saddle. 
But  Phil  uttered  a  groan  and  struck  his  horse  with 
the  quirt. 

"She  cut  me!"  he  moaned. 

"Aw,  forget  it!"  growled  Bud,  and  they  rode 
on  their  way  in  silence. 


XVI 

AT  their  camp  by  the  Eagle  Tail  mine, 
even  though  they  held  it  still  and  were 
heirs  to  half  its  gold,  the  two  pardners  were 
glum  and  sorrowful.  The  treacheries  which  Bud 
had  forgiven  in  a  moment  of  exaltation  came  back 
to  him  now  as  he  brooded;  and  he  eyed  his  friend 
askance,  as  if  wondering  what  he  would  do  next. 

He  recalled  all  the  circumstances  of  their  quest — • 
the  meeting  with  Kruger,  Phil's  insistence  on  the 
adventure,  the  oath  of  loyalty  which  they  had  sworn; 
and  then  the  gradual  breaking  down  of  their  broth 
erly  devotion  until  now  they  were  strangers  at 
heart.  Phil  sat  by  himself,  keeping  his  thoughts 
to  himself,  and  he  stood  aloof  while  he  waited  for 
the  worst  to  happen. 

From  the  first  day  of  their  undertaking  Hooker 
had  felt  that  it  was  unlucky,  and  now  he  knew  that 
the  end  was  coming.  His  friend  was  lost  to  him, 
lost  alike  to  a  sense  of  loyalty  and  honor;  he  gloomed 
by  himself  and  thought  only  of  Gracia  Aragon. 

The  oath  which  Phil  himself  had  forced  upon 
Bud  was  broken  and  forgotten;  but  Bud,  by  a 
sterner  standard,  felt  bound  to  keep  his  part.  One 
thing  alone  could  make  him  break  it — his  word  to 
Henry  Kruger.  The  Eagle  Tail  mine  he  held  in 
trust,  and  half  of  it  was  Kruger's. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  147 

"Phil,"  he  said  at  last,  when  his  mind  was  weary 
of  the  ceaseless  grind  of  thoughts,  "I  believe  that 
mineral  agent  is  holding  back  our  papers.  I  believe 
old  Aragon  has  passed  him  a  hundred  or  so  and 
they're  in  cahoots  to  rob  us.  But  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'll  do — you  give  me  a  power  of  attorney  to  receive 
those  papers  for  you,  and  I'll  go  in  and  talk  Dutch 
to  the  whole  outfit." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do  that  for?"  demanded 
De  Lancey  querulously.  "Why  can't  you  wait  a 
while?  Those  papers  have  to  go  to  Moctezuma  and 
Hermosillo  and  all  over  the  City  of  Mexico  and  back, 
and  it  takes  time.  What  do  you  want  to  make 
trouble  for?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Phil,"  answered  Bud  honestly. 
"I've  got  a  hunch  if  we  don't  grab  them  papers  soon 
we  won't  get  'em  at  all.  Here  these  rebels  are 
working  closer  all  the  time,  and  Aragon  is  crowding 
us.  I  want  to  get  title  and  turn  it  over  to  Kruger, 
before  we  lose  out  somewhere." 

"What's  the  matter  with  me  going  in  and  talking 
to  the  agent?"  suggested  Phil.  Then,  as  he  saw  his 
pardner's  face,  he  paused  and  laughed  bitterly. 

"You  don't  trust  me  any  more,  do  you,  Bud?" 
he  said. 

"Well,  it  ain't  that  so  much,"  evaded  Hooker; 
"but  I  sure  don't  trust  that  Manuel  del  Rey.  The 
first  time  you  go  into  town  he's  going  to  pinch 
you,  and  I  know  it." 

"I'm  going  to  go  in  all  the  same,"  declared  De 
Lancey,  "and  if  the  little  squirt  tries  to  stop  me — 

"Aw,    Phil,"    entreated    Bud,    "be    reasonable, 


i48  THE   DESERT  TRAIL 

can't  ye?  You  got  no  call  to  go  up  against  that 
little  feller.  He's  a  bad  actor,  I  can  see  that,  and 
I  believe  he'd  kill  you  if  he  got  the  chance.  But 
wait  a  little  while — maybe  he'll  get  took  off  in  the 
fights  this  summer!" 

"No,  he's  too  cursed  mean  for  that!"  muttered 
De  Lancey,  but  he  seemed  to  take  some  comfort 
in  the  thought. 

As  for  Bud,  he  loafed  around  for  a  while,  cleaning 
up  camp,  making  smoke  for  the  absent  Yaqui, 
and  looking  over  the  deserted  mine,  but  something 
in  the  changed  atmosphere  made  him  restless  and 
uneasy. 

"I  wonder  where  that  dogged  Indian  went  to?" 
he  said  for  the  hundredth  time,  as  the  deep  shadows 
gathered  in  the  valley.  "By  Joe,  Phil,  if  Amigo 
comes  back  I'm  going  to  go  ahead  on  that  mine!  I 
want  to  keep  him  around  here,  and  we  might  as  well 
get  out  some  ore,  if  it's  only  for  a  grub-stake.  Come 
on — what  do  you  say?  We'll  open  her  up — there's 
nothing  to  hide  now.  Well,  I'll  do  it  myself,  then — 
this  setting  around  is  getting  on  my  nerves." 

His  far-seeing  eyes,  trained  from  his  boybood  to 
search  the  hills  for  cattle,  scanned  the  tops  of  the 
ridges  as  he  spoke;  and  while  he  sat  and  pondered 
they  noted  every  rock. 

Then  at  last  he  rose  up  slowly  and  gazed  at  a 
certain  spot.  He  waved  his  arm,  beckoning  the 
distant  point  of  blackness  to  come  in,  and  soon 
from  around  a  point  in  the  canon  the  Yaqui  appeared, 
bearing  a  heavy  Mauser  rifle  on  his  arm. 

Across  his  broad  breast  hung  the  same  familiar 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  149 

cartridge-belt,  two  more  encircled  his  hips,  and  he 
walked  with  his  head  held  high,  like  the  warrior 
that  he  was. 

Evidently  his  flight  had  led  to  the  place  where  his 
arms  had  been  hid,  for  he  wore  the  regulation  knife 
bayonet  at  his  hip  and  around  his  hat  was  the  red 
ribbon  of  his  people,  but  Bud  was  too  polite  to  ask 
him  about  his  journey.  Since  his  coming  the  Yaqui 
had  always  maintained  a  certain  mystery,  and  now, 
though  his  eyes  were  big  with  portent  and  he  smiled 
at  the  jests  about  his  gun,  he  simply  waved  his  hand 
to  the  south  and  east  and  murmured: 

"  Muchos  revoltosos!" 

"Seguro!"  answered  Bud  jokingly.  "But  have 
you  killed  any?" 

"Not  yet!"  returned  the  Indian,  and  he  did  not 
smile  at  that. 

"I  wonder  what  that  Indian  is  waiting  around 
here  for?"  remarked  Phil  in  English.  "He  must 
have  his  eye  on  somebody." 

"Yeah,  I  bet,"  agreed  Bud,  regarding  his  savage 
friend  with  a  speculative  interest.  "Most  of  them 
Yaqui  soldiers  was  farm-hands  in  this  country 
before  they  rounded  them  up.  I  reckon  he's  look 
ing  for  the  man  that  had  him  deported. 

"Tired,  Amigo?"  he  inquired  in  Spanish,  and 
Ignacio  gravely  acknowledged  that  he  was,  a  little. 

"Then  drink  plenty  coffee,"  went  on  Hooker. 
"Eat  lots — to-morrow  we  go  to  work  in  the  mine." 

"To-morrow?"  repeated  the  Indian,  as  if  consider 
ing  his  other  engagements.  "Good!"  He  nodded 
a  smiling  assent. 


ISO  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

After  a  month  and  more  of  idleness  Bud  and 
Amigo  performed  prodigies  of  labor  in  the  cut, 
rolling  down  boulders,  lifting  them  up  on  the  tram, 
and  clearing  away  the  face  of  the  cliff.  Their  tram 
was  ramshackle,  their  track  the  abandoned  rails 
from  older  workings,  and  their  tools  little  more 
than  their  hands,  but  by  noon  the  last  broken 
fragments  were  heaved  aside  and  the  shattered  ledge 
revealed. 

A  low  cry  of  wonder  escaped  the  Yaqui  as  he 
gazed  at  the  rich  vein  of  ore,  and  as  he  saw  the 
grim  smile  on  Bud's  rugged  countenance  he  showed 
his  white  teeth  in  sympathy. 

" Que  bueno!"  he  murmured.  "How  good!" 
gathering  the  precious  fragments  in  his  handker 
chief. 

At  the  camp  they  crushed  the  picked  ore  in  a 
mortar  and  panned  it  in  the  creek,  and  for  the 
moment  De  Lancey  dropped  his  air  of  preoccupancy 
as  he  stared  at  the  streak  of  pure  gold.  Like  a 
yellow  film  it  lay  along  the  edge  of  the  last  fine  tail 
ings,  and  when  skilful  washing  had  left  it  bare,  it 
gleamed  like  a  jewel  in  the  pan. 

"By  Jove,  Bud!"  he  cried,  "that's  the  real  stuff— 
and  it  goes  a  dollar  to  the  pan  easy!" 

"Sure  thing!"  assented  Bud.  "Let's  pound  a 
lot  of  k  and  wash  it  as  we  go — then  we'll  have  some 
getaway  money  when  things  break  loose  here!" 

"I'll  go  you!"  answered  Phil,  and  Bud's  heart 
warmed  toward  him  as  he  watched  him  pound  up 
a  piece  of  ore  and  go  to  swirling  the  dirt  in  the  pan. 

But  alas  for  the  fond  hopes  he  cherished!     Even 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  15! 

as  he  washed  out  the  gold  Phil's  mind  wandered 
far  away,  back  to  the  hotel  where  Gracia  Aragon  sat 
watching  by  the  window. 

Her  hair  was  the  color  of  gold,  spun  fine  and  re 
fined  again;  yes,  it  was  worth  more  than  this  golden 
dross  that  he  caught  in  the  bottom  of  his  pan.  And 
what  was  gold  if  he  could  not  have  her? 

He  paused  in  his  labor  and  a  dreamy  smile 
parted  his  lips — then  he  broke  into  a  song: 

"Sweet  honey-bee,  be  sweet  to  me, 
My  heart  is  free,  but  here's  the  key; 
Lock  up  the  garden  gate;   honey,  you  know  I'll  wait, 
Under  the  rambler  rose  tree-ee." 

Once  more  he  returned  to  his  work,  humming 
now  the  dulcet  strains  of  "The  Merry  Widow,"  and 
when  Bud  came  back  from  the  cut  it  was  to  hear  a 
coon  song: 

"  'Cos  I  want  yer,  ma  honey,  yes,  I  want  yer,  want  yer,  want 

yer; 
'Cos  I  want  yer,  ma  honey,  yes,  I  do!  " 

So  he  labored  and  sang,  until  finally  the  labor 
ceased,  and  then  the  song.  He  went  about  other 
things,  and  other  thoughts,  not  so  cheerful,  filled 
his  mind. 

Bud  returned  sadly  to  the  company  of  the  Yaqui 
and  gave  it  up.  Perhaps  his  pardner  had  been  right 
when,  riding  out  of  Agua  Negra,  he  had  enlarged 
upon  the  dangers  of  Old  Mexico,  "the  land  of 
manana  and  broken  promises."  Certainly  his  speech 
had  been  prophetic  in  regard  to  dark-eyed  women; 


152  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

for,  even  as  he  had  said,  nothing  seemed  to  please 
them  better  than  to  come  between  man  and  man. 

It  was  a  madness,  he  felt  sure — the  spell  of  the  hot 
country,  where  the  women  look  out  from  behind 
barred  windows  and  men  sing  beneath  their  bal 
conies  at  midnight.  Already  it  had  cost  him  his 
pardner — would  it  conquer  his  will  as  well  and  make 
him  forget  his  trust? 

In  his  impotence  the  idea  of  some  perverse  fate 
— some  malign  influence  over  which  he  had  no  con 
trol — was  strong  with  Hooker;  yet  when  the  blow 
fell  he  was  not  prepared  for  it.  It  was  the  third 
day  of  their  mining  and,  with  Amigo,  he  had  been 
driving  into  the  face  of  the  cliff. 

Already  their  round  of  holes  was  drilled,  the  fuses 
cut,  the  charges  set,  and  as  he  retreated  before  the 
blast  he  noticed  absently  that  Cruz  Mendez  was  in 
camp.  The  shots  followed  one  after  another,  and 
he  counted  them  to  make  sure  there  was  no  miss- 
fire — then  he  looked  around  and  discovered  that 
Phil  was  gone. 

"Where  is  Don  Felipe?"  he  inquired  of  Mendez, 
and  that  low-browed  brother  of  the  burro  bowed 
fawningly  before  he  replied. 

"He  has  gone  to  Fortuna,"  he  said,  wiping  his 
face  with  the  bath-towel  which  he  wore  about  his  neck. 

"And  what  for?"  demanded  Bud  imperatively. 

"I  don't  know,  scnor"  writhed  Mendez.  "I 
brought  him  a  letter." 

"From  whom?" 

"I  don't  know — it  was  given  to  me  by  Juana, 
the  servant  of  the  Senorita  Aragon." 


THE   DESERT  TRAIL  153 

"Ah!"  breathed  Bud,  and  pretended  not  to  be 
surprised. 

"Well,  let  'im  go!"  he  said  to  himself,  and  went 
back  into  the  mine.  It  was  what  he  had  expected 
in  a  way,  and  his  code  bade  him  keep  his  hands  off. 
But  the  next  morning,  when  the  evil  was  either 
avoided  or  done,  he  thrust  his  rifle  into  its  sling  and 
started  for  the  town.  At  the  jail  he  halted  and 
gazed  in  through  the  windows — then  he  rode  up  to 
the  hotel  and  asked  for  Phil. 

"What?  Have  you  not  heard?"  clamored  Don 
Juan.  "Ah,  it  is  most  unfortunate — I  would  not 
have  had  it  happen  for  the  world!" 

"What?"  inquired  Bud  succinctly. 

"Why,  the  quarrel — the  encounter  with  Capitan 
del  Rey!  I  did  my  best,  I  assure  you,  to  prevent  it, 
for  the  town  has  been  put  under  martial  law  and  the 
captain  is  in  full  charge.  They  quarreled  over  the 
favor  of  a  lady,  and  now  your  friend  is  in  jail." 

"I  didn't  see  him  when  I  come  by,"  observed 
Hooker. 

"Ah,  no — not  in  the  cdrccl — in  the  cuartel,  the 
guard-house  of  the  ruraUs!" 

"Much  obliged!"  nodded  Bud,  and  rode  on 
through  the  town.  The  street  of  the  Mexican 
quarter  was  filled  with  strange  people  hurrying 
to  and  fro;  long  pack-trains  loaded  with  trunks  and 
curious  bundles  came  swinging  up  from  below; 
and  a  pair  of  rurales,  looking  fierce  under  their  huge 
sombreros  stood  guard  by  the  cuartel  door. 

"Where  is  the  capitan?"  demanded  Hooker. 
After  requesting  him  to  hang  his  pistol-belt  on  his 


154  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

saddle-horn,  a  sergeant  showed  him  in  to  the 
chief. 

Manuel  del  Rey  was  very  busy  with  papers  and 
orders,  but  as  the  American  appeared  in  the  doorway 
he  rose  and  greeted  him  with  a  bow. 

"Ah,  good  morning,  senor"  he  said,  with  one 
swift  glance  to  read  his  mood.  "You  are  in  search 
of  your  friend — no?" 

"S"{,  senor"  answered  Hooker,  but  with  none  of 
the  animosity  which  the  captain  had  expected. 
"Where  is  he?" 

"I  regret  very  much,"  began  the  officer,  speaking 
with  military  formality,  "but  it  is  my  duty  to  inform 
you  that  the  Senor  De  Lancey  has  left  Fortuna. 
Last  night  he  did  me  the  honor  to  enlist  in  my  com 
pany  of  ruralfs — he  is  now  on  his  way  to  the  north 
to  assist  in  guarding  the  railroad." 

"What?"  shouted  Bud,  hardly  able  to  believe 
his  ears.  But  when  the  captain  repeated  it  he  no 
longer  doubted  his  Spanish. 

"But  why?"  he  cried.  "Why  did  he  join  the 
juralcs?  " 

"Ah,  senor"  shrugged  Del  Rey,  "was  he  not  a 
Mexican  citizen?  Very  well,  then;  he  could  be 
summoned  for  military  service.  But  the  circum 
stances  were  these:  Your  friend  came  yesterday 
to  this  town,  where  I  am  at  present  military  com 
mander,  and  made  an  unprovoked  assault  upon  my 
person.  For  this,  according  to  law,  he  should  have 
been  shot  at  sunrise.  But,  not  wishing  to  occasion 
unpleasantness  with  the  Americans  now  residing 
here,  I  offered  him  the  alternative  of  military  ser- 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  155 

vice.     He  is  now  enlisted  as  a  rural  for  a  term  of 
five  years." 

"Five  years !"  exclaimed  Hooker;  and  then, 
instead  of  starting  the  expected  rough-house — upon 
which  the  rural  guards  were  prepared  to  jump  on 
his  back — he  simply  threw  down  his  hat  and  cursed — 
not  anyone  in  particular,  but  everything  in  general; 
and  at  the  end  of  it  he  turned  once  more  upon  the 
watchful  captain. 

"Dispenseme,  seiior,"  he  said,  "this  is  the  truth, 
is  it?" 

"Sz,  senor,"  returned  Captain  Del  Rey.  "But 
before  leaving  with  his  detachment  your  friend 
wrote  this  letter,  which  he  requested  me  to  deliver 
to  you." 

He  offered  with  a  flourish  a  sealed  envelope,  from 
which  Bud  extracted  a  short  note. 

DEAR  BUD: 

When  you  get  this  I  shall  be  far  away.  I  must  have  been 
mad,  but  it  is  too  late  now.  Rather  than  be  executed  I  have 
enlisted  as  a  rural.  But  I  shall  try  to  be  brave  for  her  sake. 
Take  care  of  her,  Bud — for  me! 

PHIL. 

Bud  read  it  through  again  and  meditated  pon 
derously.  Then  he  folded  it  up  and  thrust  it  into  his 
pocket. 

"  Muchas  graciasy  Senor  Capitan,"  he  said,  saluting 
and  turning  upon  his  heel;  and  while  all  the  Mex 
icans  marveled  at  the  inscrutable  ways  of  Ameri 
canos,  he  mounted  and  rode  away. 


XVII 

THERE  was  a  world  of  Mexicans  in  the  plaza 
when  Hooker  rode  down  through  the  town. 
Never,  it  seemed  to  him,  had  he  seen  so  many 
or  liked  them  less. 

To  the  handful  of  Americans  who  remained  to 
man  the  mill  and  mine,  they  were  easily  a  hundred 
to  one;  and  though  their  eyes  were  wide  with  fear 
of  the  imminent  rebels,  they  had  an  evil  way  of  star 
ing  at  him  which  he  did  not  relish. 

Even  at  the  hotel,  where  the  Spanish-Mexican 
aristocracy  was  massed  ten  deep,  he  sensed  the  same 
feeling  of  veiled  hostility  and  wondered  vaguely 
what  it  might  portend.  If  Philip  DeJLancey,  for 
making  love  to  a  girl,  was  drafted  into  the  army, 
what  would  happen  to  him  if  these  people  should 
ever  break  loose?  And  did  they  have  the  courage 
to  do  their  worst  ? 

He  lingered  around  the  door  for  a  while,  hoping  to 
meet  Don  Juan  or  some  American  who  would  tell 
him  the  news;  then,  disgusted  with  everything,  he 
flung  away  and  left  them  to  themselves.  Fortuna 
was  not  a  white  man's  country — he  could  see  that 
without  a  diagram — but  at  the  same  time  he  in 
tended  to  hold  his  mine  until  he  could  hear  from 
Phil. 

Let  the  tides  of  insurrection  come  and  go,  let  the 

156 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  157 

red-flaggers  take  the  town  and  the  Federals  take  it 
back  again — at  the  end  he  would  still  be  found  at 
the  Eagle  Tail,  unless  Phil  received  his  title  to  the 
mine. 

As  for  Aragon,  whose  fine  Italian  hand  he  per 
ceived  behind  the  sudden  taking  off  of  Phil,  let  him 
make  what  trades  he  would  with  the  rurales  and 
Manuel  del  Rey,  even  to  the  giving  of  his  daughter's 
hand;  but  if,  taking  advantage  of  the  unsettled 
times,  he  dared  to  try  to  steal  their  mine,  then  there 
would  be  war  to  the  knife. 

It  is  a  fine,  comforting  thing  to  be  single-minded 
and  of  one  purpose.  All  the  rest  of  life  is  simplified 
and  ordered  then,  and  a  man  knows  when  to  raise 
his  hand  and  when  to  hold  it  back. 

In  his  letter  Phil  had  said  nothing  about  their 
mine,  but  he  was  a  Mexican  citizen  still,  and  the 
mine  was  in  his  name.  But  he  was  his  pardner  and 
free  to  hold  it  in  his  stead;  and  that  he  determined 
to  do — not  only  hold  it,  but  work  it  for  a  stake. 
Then,  when  the  title  was  passed  and  all  made 
certain,  they  could  turn  it  over  to  Kruger  and  quit 
the  accursed  country. 

As  for  the  girl,  Bud  decided  that  she  could  take 
care  of  herself  without  any  assistance  from  him, 
and  dismissed  her  from  his  mind. 

Back  at  the  mine  he  found  Amigo  guarding  camp 
from  the  hilltop,  and  after  telling  him  the  gist  of 
his  troubles,  the  two  of  them  went  to  work.  Every 
day,  while  one  of  them  dug  out  the  ore,  the  other 
crushed  and  washed  it  and  watched  as  he  horned  out 
the  gold.  Their  rifles  they  kept  beside  them  and 


1 58  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

pistols  in  their  belts;  and  every  time  a  Mexican 
dropped  into  camp,  as  one  did  now  and  then  in  the 
general  unrest,  he  felt  the  silent  menace  of  arms  in 
readiness  and  continued  on  his  way. 

For  a  week  they  labored  on  together,  grim,  watch 
ful,  expectant — then,  at  the  break  of  day,  they  heard 
a  distant  rattle  of  arms,  like  the  tearing  of  a  cloth, 
and  knew  that  the  battle  was  on. 

The  great  whistle  at  Fortuna  opened  with  its  full, 
bass  roar,  and  Amigo  snatched  up  his  gun  and  went 
loping  down  the  canon,  drawn  irresistibly  by  the 
sound  of  conflict.  Bud  lingered,  climbing  higher 
and  higher  to  get  a  view  of  the  country.  But  his 
young  blood  clamored  for  action  too,  and  soon  he 
was  mounted  and  gone. 

The  fighting  was  not  at  the  American  town,  but 
down  the  valley  by  Old  Fortuna,  and  as  Hooker 
galloped  on  toward  the  sound  of  the  firing  he  noticed 
that  it  was  on  the  move.  Already  the  cowardly 
rebels  were  retreating — the  volunteers  from  For 
tuna  were  hurrying  to  get  closer  to  them,  the  rurales 
were  riding  to  flank  them;  and  when  Bud  jumped  his 
horse  up  the  last  hill  and  looked  down  into  the  broad, 
cultivated  valley  he  saw  the  dust  of  their  flight. 

Down  the  fenced  trail  that  led  to  the  lower  coun 
try  the  mounted  insurrectos  were  spurring  in  a  rout; 
across  the  newly  plowed  fields  of  Aragon  the  men  on 
foot  were  making  a  short  cut  for  the  hills;  and  all 
about  them,  like  leaping  grasshoppers,  sprang  up 
puffs  of  dust. 

Now  they  plunged  into  the  willow  brush  along  the 
river,  where  it  swung  in  against  the  ridge;  and  as 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  159 

their  pursuers  broke  into  the  open  they  halted  and 
returned  the  fire.  The  bullets  struck  up  the  dust 
like  hailstones  in  front  of  the  oncoming  irregulars, 
a  man  or  two  in  the  lead  went  down,  and  they 
faltered.  Then,  as  frantically  as  the  rebels,  they 
turned  and  ran  for  cover. 

While  defenders  and  invaders  shot  back  and  forth 
across  the  broad  field,  Bud  put  spurs  to  his  horse 
and  rode  closer,  and  when  he  came  out  on  another 
hilltop  he  was  just  in  time  to  see  the  rurales  come 
pelting  in  from  the  west,  and  take  the  revoltosos  on 
the  flank.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  long-distance 
firing  then,  while  the  rebels  slowly  retreated,  and 
finally,  with  a  last  defiant  volley,  the  defenders 
turned  back  from  their  pursuit  and  marched  tri 
umphantly  to  Old  Fortuna. 

There,  amid  numerous  vivas,  Don  Cipriano  rolled 
out  a  cask  of  mescal  and,  after  a  fiery  speech,  in 
vited  the  victors  to  help  themselves.  So  they  fell 
to  drinking  and  carousing,  and  the  one  defender 
who  had  been  wounded  was  bandaged  and  made 
much  of,  while  a  great  crowd  from  the  upper  town 
looked  on  in  awe  and  admiration. 

At  last  Manuel  del  Rey  and  his  rurales  returned 
from  harassing  the  enemy  and,  with  several  wounded 
prisoners  in  their  midst,  the  valor-drunk  Mexicans 
formed  a  riotous  procession  and  went  marching 
back  to  town.  Every  horse  and  mule  was  carrying 
double,  guns  were  being  dropped,  broad  hats  knocked 
off,  and  ever,  as  they  marched,  they  shouted: 

" Viva  Madero!  Viva  Mejico!  Muerte  a  los  re- 
voltosos!" 


160  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

It  was  an  edifying  spectacle  to  an  American,  and 
with  the  rest  Bud  tagged  along  to  the  plaza,  where 
they  had  speeches  and  cheers  galore  and  more  mescal 
at  the  company's  cantina.  But  in  the  midst  of  it, 
while  he  sat  laughing  on  his  horse  by  the  hotel, 
Bud  felt  a  gravel  strike  his  broad  hat  from  above  and, 
looking  furtively  up,  he  beheld  Gracia  Aragon  smil 
ing  down  at  him  from  the  balcony. 

She  beckoned  him  with  a  swift  movement  and 
gazed  out  over  the  assemblage  again,  and  after  a  few 
moments  of  deliberation  Hooker  tied  his  horse  and 
wandered  into  the  hotel. 

A  tingle  of  excitement  went  .over  him  as  he 
tramped  up  to  the  ladies'  parlor,  for  he  had  never 
met  Gracia  face  to  face.  But  he  disguised  his 
qualms  by  assuming  a  masklike  grimness  of  coun 
tenance  and,  when  the  glorious  Gracia  glided  out  of 
her  room  to  meet  him,  he  only  blinked  and  stood  pat. 
;  A  long  experience  as  a  poker-player  was  all  that 
saved  him  from  betrayal,  for  there  was  something 
in  her  very  presence  which  made  his  heart  leap  and 
pound.  But  he  only  gazed  at  her  somberly,  without 
even  so  much  as  raising  his  hat. 

Back  in  Texas,  in  his  social  world,  it  was  con 
sidered  almost  unmanly  thus  to  salute  the  ladies. 
So  he  stood  there,  his  big  sombrero  pulled  down  over 
his  mop  of  light  hair,  gazing  at  her  without  a  blink. 
n  Perhaps  it  was  not  altogether  so  friendly  a  scru 
tiny  of  her  charming  features  as  Gracia  expected, 
for  he  remembered  what  she  had  done  to  his  pardner; 
but  if  she  sensed  such  a  rare  thing  as  disapproval 
from  a  young  man,  she  was  too  excited  to  show  it.  j 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  161 

Her  lips  trembled,  and  she  looked  back  furtively, 
meanwhile  drawing  him  into  an  alcove  by  the 
slightest  twitch  of  his  sleeve. 

"Don't  talk  too  loud,"  she  whispered.  "My 
mother  is  listening  from  the  room — but  for  the  love 
of  God,  tell  me,  where  is  Phil?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Bud,  trying  to  lower  his 
big  voice  to  a  boudoir  softness;  "he  joined  the 
rurales  and  was  ordered  north — that's  all  I  know." 

"Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure;  but  haven't  you  heard 
from  him?" 

She  seemed  to  be  all  impatience  to  snatch  his 
news  and  fly  with  it,  but  Bud  was  in  no  such  hurry. 
And  so  far  was  he  from  being  a  carpet  knight  that 
he  immediately  raised  his  voice  to  its  normal  bass. 
It  was  all  right  for  Phil  and  his  kind  to  talk  by  signs 
and  whispers,  but  that  was  not  his  style. 

"Not  since  he  went  away,"  he  said.  "He  left 
me  a  little  note,  then,  saying — " 

"Saying  what?"  she  demanded  breathlessly. 

"Well,  saying  that  he  had  enlisted  to  keep  from 
being  executed,  and — that's  about  all!" 

"And  not  a  word  about  me?" 

"Yes,"  admitted  Bud;  "he  said  he'd  try  to  put 
up  with  it — on  account  of  you — and — " 

"What?"  she  entreated,  taking  him  beseechingly 
by  the  coat. 

"Well,"  stammered  Hooker,  shifting  his  feet  and 
looking  away,  "he  told  me  to  kinder  take  care  of 
you — while  he  was  gone." 

"Ah!"  she  breathed,  still  standing  close  to  him, 
"and  will  you  do  it?" 


162  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"I  reckon  so,"  said  Bud,  "if  we  have  any  trouble." 

"But  I'm  in  trouble  now!"  she  cried.  "I'm 
watched — I  can't  get  away — and  I'm  afraid!" 

"Afraid  of  what?"  he  demanded. 

"Of  him,"  she  answered,  her  voice  breaking — 
"of  Manuel  del  Rey!" 

"Well,"  replied  Hooker  bluntly,  "I've  got  nothing 
to  do  with  that — I  can't  interfere  in  your  love- 
affairs — but  if  the's  war  and  they  try  to  take  the 
town,  you  can  count  on  me." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  she  said,  bowing  satirically. 
"And  do  you  expect  a  war?" 

"Not  with  that  bunch  of  hombres!"  returned  Bud, 
waving  a  disparaging  hand  toward  the  noise  of  the 
shouting.  At  this  she  broke  down  and  laughed. 
Evidently  she  was  not  so  fearful  of  discovery  after 
all. 

"You  forget,  sir,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  a  Mexi 
can!" 

Then,  as  he  failed  to  show  any  signs  of  contrition, 
she  changed  her  mood  again. 

"But  wait!"  she  ran  on,  her  eyes  flashing.  "Per 
haps  we  are  not  so  eager  to  defend  our  government 
when  we  have  a  new  one  every  year.  But  if  the 
men  who  are  gathering  in  Chihuahua  invade  our 
country,  you  will  find  that  as  Sonorans  those  men 
will  fight  to  the  death. 

"You  laugh  because  you  do  not  understand. 
But  why  should  we  Sonorans  fight  side  by  side  with 
the  Federals  and  rurales?  Are  they  not  the  soldiers 
of  Diaz,  who  have  simply  changed  to  another 
master  ?  That  Manuel  del  Rey  was  last  year  hunting 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  163 

down  Maderistas  in  the  hills;    now  he  is  fighting 
for  Madero!    And  to-morrow?     Who  can  say?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  scornfully,  and  Hooker 
perceived  that  she  was  in  earnest  in  her  dislike  of 
the  dashing  captain,  but  prudence  warned  him  to 
say  nothing  if  he  would  escape  being  drawn  into  the 
quarrel. 

"No, "  she  went  on,  after  an  expectant  pause, 
"let  the  rurales  pursue  these  bandits — they  are 
hired  for  that  purpose!  But  if  Orozco  and  Salazar 
join  this  ladron,  Bernardo  Bravo,  and  seek  to  cap 
ture  our  towns,  then,  Senor  Americano,  you  will  see 
real  war  and  men  fighting  to  the  death!  Ah,  you 
laugh  again — you  are  a  Texan  and  judge  us  Sonorans 
by  the  cowardly  Chihuahuans — but  it  is  the  truth. 
And  I,  for  one,"  she  added  naively,  "would  be 
almost  glad  to  have  war.  Do  you  know  why?  To 
see  if  you  would  really  defend  me!" 

She  smiled,  looking  frankly  into  his  eyes,  and  Bud 
blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  but  once  again  he 
held  his  peace. 

"What,  senory"  she  bantered;  "you  do  not  speak? 
Surely,  then,  your  friend  De  Lancey  was  wrong 
when  he  said  you  would  save  me!  For  look,  Mr. 
Hooker,  I  am  promised  to  marry  dear  Phil;  but 
how  can  I  manage  that  when  Manuel  del  Rey  is 
watching  me?  It  is  impossible,  is  it  not?" 

"Seems  so,"  muttered  Bud,  and  in  the  back  of  his 
head  he  began  to  think  quickly.  Here  was  the 
fountainhead  of  his  misfortunes,  and  if  she  had  her 
way  sne  would  lay  all  his  plans  in  ruins — and  even 
then  not  marry  Phil.  In  fact,  from  the  light  way 


164  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

she  spoke,  he  sensed  that  she  did  not  intend  to  marry 
him.  Her  grudge  was  against  Manuel  del  Rey  who 
drove  away  all  her  lovers. 

"Well,"  he  ventured,  "there's  no  rush,  I  reckon — 
Phil's  enlisted  for  five  years." 

"Ha!"  she  cried  contemptuously.  "And  do  you 
think  he  will  serve?  No!  At  a  word  from  me  he 
will  flee  to  the  border  and  I  shall  join  him  in  the 
United  States!" 

"What?"  demanded  Bud.     "Phil  desert?" 
In  a  moment  he  saw  what  such  a  move  would 
mean  to  him — to  Kruger  and  the  Eagle  Tail — and 
he  woke  suddenly  from  his  calm. 

"Here  now,"  he  said,  scowling  as  he  saw  that  she 
was  laughing  at  him,  "youVe  made  me  and  Phil 
enough  trouble.  You  let  that  boy  alone,  savvy?" 

He  stooped  toward  her  as  he  spoke,  fixing  her  with 
masterful  eyes  that  had  tamed  many  a  bad  horse 
and  man,  and  she  shrank  away  instinctively.  Then 
she  glanced  at  him  shyly  and  edged  over  toward  the 
open  door. 

"I  will  do  what  I  please,  Mr.  Hooker,"  she  re 
turned,  balancing  on  the  verge  of  flight. 

"All  right,"  Bud  came  back;  "but  don't  you  call 
me  in  on  it.  You've  made  a  fool  out  of  Phil — I 
suppose  you'd  like  to  get  me,  too.  Then  your  father 
would  grab  our  mine." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  challenged,  turning 
back  upon  him. 

"I  mean  this,"  responded  Hooker  warmly:  "Phil 
holds  the  title  to  our  mine.  If  he  deserts  he  loses 
his  Mexican  citizenship  and  his  claim  is  no  good. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL      ,          165 

But  you  don't  need  to  think  that  you  father  will  get 
the  mine  then,  because  he'll  have  to  whip  me  first!" 

"O-ho!"  she  sneered.  "So  that  is  what  you  are 
thinking  of?  You  are  a  true  Gringo,  Mr.  Hooker — 
always  thinking  about  the  money!" 

"Yes,"  returned  Bud;  "and  even  at  that  I  believe 
your  old  man  will  best  me!" 

She  laughed  again,  with  sudden  capriciousness, 
and  stood  tapping  the  floor  with  her  foot. 

"Ah,  I  see,"  she  said  at  length,  gazing  at  him 
reproachfully;  "you  think  I  am  working  for  my 
father.  You  think  I  got  poor  Phil  into  all  this  trou 
ble  in  order  to  cheat  him  of  his  mine.  But  let  me 
tell  you,  Senor  Gringo,"  she  cried  with  sudden  fire, 
"that  I  did  not!  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  my 
father  and  his  schemes.  But  if  you  do  not  trust 


me—" 


She  turned  dramatically  to  go,  but  when  Hooker 
made  no  effort  to  stay  her  she  returned  once  more 
to  the  attack. 

"No,"  she  said,  "it  was  because  he  was  an 
American — because  he  was  brave — that  I  put  my 
faith  in  Phil.  These  Mexican  men  are  cowards — 
they  are  afraid  to  stand  up  and  fight!  But  Philip 
dared  to  make  love  to  me — he  dared  to  sing  to  me  at 
night — and  when  Manuel  del  Rey  tried  to  stop  him 
he  stood  up  and  made  a  fight! 

"Ah,  that  is  what  I  admire — a  man  who  is  brave. 
And  let  me  tell  you,  Senor  Hooker,  I  shall  always 
love  your  friend!  If  I  could  run  away  I  would 
marry  him  to-morrow;  but  this  cur,  Manuel  del 
Rey,  stands  in  the  way.  Even  my  own  father  is 


166  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

against  me.  But  I  don't  care — I  don't  care  what 
happens — only  do  not  think  that  I  am  not  your 
friend!" 

She  paused  now  and  glanced  at  him  shyly,  and 
as  her  eloquent  eyes  met  his  own  Bud  felt  suddenly 
that  she  was  sincere.  The  gnawing  and  corrosive 
doubts  that  had  eaten  at  his  heart  fell  away,  and  he 
saw  her  now  in  her  true  beauty,  with  no  uneasy 
thoughts  of  treachery  to  poison  his  honest  love. 

"I  believe  you,  lady,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  glad 
to  know  you,"  he  added,  taking  off  his  hat  and  bow 
ing  awkwardly.  "Anything  I  can  do  for  you,  don't 
hesitate  to  ask  for  it — only  I  can't  go  against  my 
pardners  on  this  mine." 

He  bowed  again  and  retreated  toward  the  door, 
but  she  followed  him  impulsively. 

"Shake  hands,"  she  said,  holding  out  both  her 
own,  "and  will  you  help  me?" 

"Sure!"  answered  Bud,  and  as  her  soft  fingers 
closed  on  his  he  took  them  gently,  for  fear  that  he 
might  crush  them  and  never  know. 


XVIII     . 

A  MONTH  of  weary  waiting  followed  that  day 
of  days  in  Fortuna,  and  still  there  was  no 
word  from  Phil.     Bernardo   Bravo  and  his 
rebel  raiders  passed  through  the  mountains  to  the 
east,  and  news  came  of  heavy  fighting  in  Chihuahua. 
Don  Cipriano  Aragon   moved   his   family  back   to 
his  hacienda  and  Gracia  became  only  a  dream. 

Then,  one  day,  as  Hooker  and  the  Yaqui  were 
industriously  pounding  out  gold,  a  messenger  came 
out  from  town  with  a  telegram  in  his  hand. 

Am  in  Gadsden.  No  chance  to  hold  mine.  Kruger  says 
quit. — P. 

"No,  I'll  be  'sarned  if  I  do!"  muttered  Bud. 
Then  he  sat  down  to  think. 

"Amigo,"  he  said  to  the  Yaqui,  "are  you  a 
Mexican  citizen?  Can  you  get  title  to  mine?" 

"Me  a  Mexican?"  repeated  Amigo,  tapping  him 
self  proudly  on  the  chest.  "No,  senor!  Seguro 
que  no!" 

"All  right  then,"  observed  Bud  bitterly,  "here 
goes  nothing — nowhere!  I'll  turn  Mexican  myself!" 

He  passed  the  messenger  on  the  way  to  town,  took 
out  his  first  papers  as  a  citizen,  picked  up  the  mineral 
agent's  expert  on  the  way  back,  and  located  the 

167 


1 68  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

Eagle  Tail  in  his  own  name.     Before  riding  back  to 
camp  he  wired  to  Kruger: 

Have  turned  Mex  and  relocated  claim. 

HOOKER/ 

It  was  his  last  card,  and  he  did  not  expect  to  win 
by  it.  Fate  had  been  against  him  from  the  first, 
and  he  could  see  his  finish,  but  his  nature  drove  him 
to  fight  on.  All  that  Aragon  had  to  do  now  was 
to  have  him  summoned  for  military  service,  and  Del 
Rey  would  do  the  rest. 

Then  he  could  take  over  the  mine.  A  mere 
formality — or  so  it  seemed — but  between  Aragon 
and  his  mine  stood  the  Texas  blood.  Hooker  had 
been  crowded  to  the  wall,  and  he  was  mad  enough 
to  fight. 

The  news  of  De  Lancey's  desertion  followed 
quickly  after  his  flight — it  came  over  the  Federal 
wires  in  a  report  to  Manuel  del  Rey — but  by  the 
time  it  got  to  Aragon  that  gentleman  was  too  late. 
They  rode  into  camp  the  next  day — Aragon  and  the 
captain  of  the  rurales — and  at  the  first  glimpse  of 
that  hated  uniform  Amigo  was  off  like  a  buck.  Bud 
went  out  sullenly  to  meet  them,  his  black  mood 
showing  in  his  lowering  eyes,  and  he  halted  them  by 
the  savagery  of  his  cursing. 

"You  cock-eyed  old  reprobate,"  he  snarled, 
advancing  threateningly  upon  the  paling  Aragon, 
"this  makes  three  times  you've  come  into  my  camp 
and  brought  your  gun  with  you!  Now  take  it  off!" 
he  yelled,  dropping  suddenly  into  Spanish.  "Take 
that  gun  oft — do  you  understand?" 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  169 

So  violent  and  unexpected  was  his  assault  that  it 
threw  Aragon  into  a  panic,  and  even  Manuel  del 
Rey  softened  his  manner  as  he  inquired  into  the 
cause. 

"Never  mind,"  answered  Bud,  smiling  crustily  as 
Aragon  laid  aisde  his  arms;  "I  know  that  hombre 
well !  Now  what  can  I  do  for  you,  capitan?  " 

"Be  so  kind  as  to  take  your  hand  from  your  belt," 
replied  Del  Rey  with  a  smile  that  was  intended  to 
placate.  "Ah,  thank  you — excuse  my  nerves— 
now  I  can  tell  you  the  news.  I  regret  to  inform  you 
senoT,  that  your  friend,  De  Lancey,  has  deserted 
from  my  command,  taking  his  arms  and  equipment 
with  him.  In  case  he  is  captured  he  will  be  shot  as  a 
deserter." 

"Your  news  is  old,  capitan"  rejoined  Hooker. 
"I  knew  it  two  days  ago.  And  you  can  tell  Mr. 
Aragon  that  it  is  no  use  for  him  to  try  to  get  this 
mine — I  became  a  Mexican  citizen  yesterday  and 
located  it  myself." 

"So  we  learned,"  responded  the  captain  suavely. 
"It  was  part  of  my  errand  today  to  ask  if  you  would 
not  enlist  in  my  company  of  rurales." 

"Muchas  gracias,  capitan"  answered  Hooker  with 
heavy  irony.  "I  do  not  care  to!" 

"But  your  friend — "  protested  Manuel  del  Rey 
with  an  insinuating  smile. 

"My  friend  was  in  jail,"  put  in  Bud;  "he  was  to 
be  shot  at  sunrise.  But  mira,  amigo,  I  am  not  in 
jail,  and,  furthermore,  I  do  not  intend  to  be." 

"That  is  very  creditable  to  you,"  laughed  Del 
Rey;  "but  even  then  you  are  entitled  to  enlist* 


170  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

The  country  is  full  of  turbulent  fellows  who  have  to 
be  caught  or  killed.  Come  now,  you  understand 
my  errand — why  make  it  hard  for  me?" 

"No,  senory"  returned  Bud  grimly,  "I  know 
nothing  of  your  errand.  But  this  I  do  know.  I 
have  done  nothing  for  which  I  can  be  arrested,  and 
if  any  man  tries  to  make  me  join  the  army — "  he 
hooked  his  thumb  into  his  belt  and  regarded  the 
captain  fixedly.  * 

"Ah,  very  well,"  said  Del  Rey,  jerking  his  waxed 
mustachiosy  "I  will  not  press  the  matter.  But  I 
understand  from  one  of  my  men,  senor,  that  you  are 
harboring  a  dangerous  criminal  here — the  same  man, 
perhaps,  whom  I  saw  running  up  the  canon?" 

He  smiled  meaningly  at  this,  but  Bud  was  swift 
to  defend  his  Yaqui. 

"No,  senary"  he  replied,  "I  have  no  such  criminal. 
I  have  a  Mexican  working  for  me  who  is  one  of  the 
best  miners  in  Sonora,  and  that  is  all  I  know  about 
him." 

"A  Mexican?"  repeated  Del  Rey,  arching  his 
eyebrows.  "Excuse  me,  sir,  but  it  is  my  business 
to  know  every  man  in  this  district,  and  he  is  no 
Mexican,  but  a  Yaqui.  Moreover,  he  is  a  fugitive 
and  an  outlaw,  and  if  he  had  not  been  enlisted  with 
the  Federals  I  should  have  arrested  him  when  he 
passed  through  Fortuna.  So  I  warn  you,  sir,  not 
to  hide  him,  or  you  will  be  liable  to  the  law." 

"I'm  not  hiding  him,"  protested  Hooker  scorn 
fully.  "I'm  just  hiring  him  as  a  miner,  and  any 
time  you  want  him  you  can  come  and  get  him. 
"He's  up  in  the  rocks  there  somewhere  now." 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  171 

"So!"  exclaimed  the  captain,  glancing  uneasily 
at  the  hillside.  "I  did  not  think — but  many  thanks, 
senor>  another  time  will  do  as  well." 

He  reined  his  horse  away  as  he  spoke  and,  with 
a  jerk  of  the  head  to  Aragon,  rode  rapidly  down  the 
canon.  Aragon  lingered  to  retrieve  his  fallen 
gun-belt  and  then,  seeming  to  think  better  of  his 
desire  to  speak,  he  made  a  single  vindictive  gesture 
and  set  spurs  to  his  champing  horse. 

It  was  merely  a  fling  of  the  hand,  as  spontaneous 
as  a  sigh  or  a  frown,  but  in  it  Hooker  read  the  last 
exasperation  of  the  Spaniard  and  his  declaration  of 
war  to  the  knife.  He  bared  his  strong  teeth  in 
reply  and  hissed  out  a  blighting  curse,  and  then 
Aragon  was  gone. 

That  evening,  as  the  darkness  came  on  and  the 
canon  became  hushed  and  still,  Bud  built  a  big  fire 
and  stood  before  it,  his  rugged  form  silhouetted 
against  the  flames.  And  soon,  as  quiet  as  a  fox,  the 
Yaqui  appeared  from  the  gloom. 

"Did  he  come  for  me,"  he  asked,  advancing 
warily  into  the  firelight,  "that  capitan?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Bud,  "and  for  me,  too.  But 
you  must  have  known  him  before,  Amigo — he  seems 
to  be  afraid  of  you." 

A  smile  of  satisfaction  passed  over  the  swarthy 
face  of  the  Indian  at  this,  and  then  the  lines  became 
grim  again.  His  eyes  glowed  with  the  light  of  some 
great  purpose,  and  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
been  with  Bud  he  drew  aside  the  veil  from  his  past. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  nodding  significantly,  "the  rural 
is  afraid.  He  knows  I  have  come  to  kill  him." 


172  THE  DESERT  TRAIL' 

He  squatted  by  the  fire  and  poured  out  a  cup 
of  coffee,  still  brooding  over  his  thoughts — then,  with 
a  swift  gesture,  he  laid  open  his  shirt  and  pointed  to 
a  scar  along  the  ribs. 

"He  shot  me  there,"  he  said. 

"And  so  you  have  come  to  kill  him?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Amigo;  "but  not  now.  To 
morrow  I  go  to  my  people — I  must  take  them  my 
money  first." 

"Have  you  got  a  wife?"  asked  Hooker,  forgetting 
for  once  his  accustomed  reserve. 

"No,"  grumbled  Amigo,  shaking  his  head  sadly, 
"no  wife." 

"Oh,  you  take  your  money  to  your  father  and 
mother." 

"No.     No  father — no  mother — nadie!" 

He  threw  up  his  open  hands  to  signify  that  all 
were  gone,  and  Hooker  said  no  more.  For  three 
months  and  more  he  had  worked  alongside  this 
giant,  silent  Yaqui  and  only  once  had  he  sensed  his 
past.  That  was  when  Amigo  had  torn  his  shirt  in 
lifting,  and  across  the  rippling  muscles  of  his  back 
there  had  shown  the  long  white  wale  of  a  whip.  t 

It  was  the  mark  of  his  former  slavery  when,  with 
the  rest  of  his  people,  he  had  been  deported  to  the 
henequen-fields  of  Yucatan  and  flogged  by  the  over 
seer's  lash — and  Amigo  was  ashamed  of  it.  But 
now  that  he  was  about  to  go,  Bud  made  bold  to  ask 
him  one  more  question,  to  set  his  mind  at  rest. 

"Perhaps  this  captain  killed  your  people?" 

"No,  senary"  answered  Amigo  quietly;  "they 
died." 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  173 

He  spoke  the  words  simply,  but  there  was  some 
thing  in  his  voice  that  brought  up  images  of  the  past 
— of  peaceful  Yaquis,  seized  at  every  ranch  in  Sonora 
on  a  certain  night;  of  long  marches  overland,  prod 
ded  on  by  rurales  and  guards;  of  the  crowded  prison- 
ships  from  which  the  most  anguished  hurled  them 
selves  into  the  sea;  and  then  the  awful  years  of 
slavery  in  the  poisoned  tropics,  until  only  the  hardi 
est  were  left. 

Amigo  had  seen  it  all,  as  the  scars  on  his  broad 
back  proved — but  he  withdrew  now  into  silence  and 
left  his  thoughts  unsaid.  As  he  sat  there  by  the 
fire,  one  long,  black  hand  held  out  to  keep  the  gleam 
from  his  eyes,  he  made  a  noble  figure,  but  the  Yaqui 
songs  which  he  had  crooned  on  other  nights  were 
forgotten,  and  he  held  himself  tense  and  still.  Then 
at  last  he  rose  and  gazed  at  Bud. 

"You  pay  me  my  money,"  he  said.     "I  go  now." 

"Sure,"  answered  Bud,  and  after  he  had  weighed 
out  the  equivalent  in  gold  on  his  scales  he  flipped  in 
some  more  for  luck  and  gave  him  a  sack  to  hold  it. 

"What  you  buy  with  all  that,"  he  inquired  with 
a  friendly  grin;  "grub?" 

"No,  seiior,"  answered  Amigo,  knotting  the 
precious  gold  in  a  handkerchief;  "cartridges!" 

"What  for?"  queried  Bud,  and  then  it  was  Amigo 
who  smiled. 

"To  kill  Mexicans  with!"  he  replied,  and  in  those 
words  Hooker  read  the  secret  of  his  thrift. 

While  his  wild  brethren  fought  in  the  hills  or  pre 
pared  for  the  battles  to  come,  it  was  his  part  to  earn 
the  money  that  should  keep  them  in  ammunition. 


174  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

It  was  for  that,  in  fact,  that  Porfirio  Diaz  had 
seized  all  the  peaceful  Yaquis  in  a  night  and  shipped 
them  to  Yucatan — for  he  saw  that  while  they  were 
working  the  wild  Yaquis  would  never  lack. 

All  the  time  that  Amigo  had  been  doing  two 
men's  work  and  saving  on  the  price  of  a  shirt  he  had 
held  that  cheerful  dream  in  his  mind — to  kill  more 
Mexicans! 

Yet,  despite  the  savagery  in  him,  Hooker  had 
come  to  like  the  Yaqui,  and  he  liked  him  still.  With 
the  rurales  on  his  trail  it  was  better  that  he  should 
go,  but  Bud  wanted  him  to  return.  So,  knowing  the 
simple  honesty  of  Indians,  he  brought  out  his  own 
spare  pistol  and  placed  it  in  Amigo's  hands.  Often 
he  had  seen  him  gazing  at  it  longingly,  for  it  was 
lighter  than  his  heavy  Mauser  and  better  for  the 
journey. 

"Here,"  he  said,  "I  will  lend  you  my  pistol — 
and  you  can  give  it  to  me  when  you  come  back." 

"Sure!"  answered  the  Indian,  hanging  it  on  his 
hip.  "Adios!" 

They  shook  hands  then,  and  the  Yaqui  disap 
peared  in  the  darkness.  In  the  morning,  when  a 
squad  of  rurales  closed  in  on  the  camp,  they  found 
nothing  but  his  great  tracks  in  the  dust. 


XIX 

IT    was    June  and  the  wind-storms  which  had 
swept  in  from  the  southeast  died  away.     No 
more,  as  in  the  months  that  had  passed,  did 
the  dust-pillar  rise  from  rhe  dump  of  the  Fortuna 
mill  and  go  swirling  up  the  canon. 

A  great  calm  and  heat  settled  over  the  harassed 
land,  and  above  the  far  blue  wall  of  the  Sierras  the 
first  thunder-caps  of  the  rainy  season  rose  up  till 
they  obscured  the  sky.  Then,  with  a  rush  of  con 
flicting  winds,  a  leaden  silence,  and  a  crash  of 
flickering  light,  the  storm  burst  in  tropic  fury  and 
was  gone  as  quickly  as  it  had  come. 

So,  while  the  rich  landowners  of  the  hot  country 
sat  idle  and  watched  it  grow,  another  storm  gathered 
behind  the  distant  Sierras;  and,  as  empty  rumors 
lulled  them  to  a  false  security,  suddenly  from  the 
north  came  the  news  of  dashing  raids,  of  railroads 
cut,  troops  routed,  and  the  whole  border  occupied 
by  swarming  rebels. 

In  a  day  the  southern  country  was  isolated  and 
cut  off  from  escape  and,  while  the  hordes  of  Chi 
huahua  insurrectos  laid  siege  to  Agua  Negra,  the 
belated  Spanish  haciendados  came  scuttling  once 
more  to  Fortuna.  There,  at  least,  wTas  an  American 
town  where  the  courage  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  would 
protect  their  women  in  extremity.  And,  if  worst 

J75 


176          .      THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

came  to  worst,  it  was  better  to  pay  ransom  to  red- 
flag  generals  than  to  fall  victims  to  bandits  and 
looters. 

As  the  bass  roar  of  the  great  whistle  reverberated 
over  the  hills  Bud  Hooker  left  his  lonely  camp 
almost  gladly,  and  with  his  hard-won  gold-dust 
safe  beneath  his  belt,  went  galloping  into  town. 

Not  for  three  weeks — not  since  he  received  the 
wire  from  Phil  and  located  the  Eagle  Tail  mine — 
had  he  dared  to  leave  his  claim.  Ruralts,  outlaws, 
and  Mexican  patriots  had  dropped  in  from  day  to 
day  and  eaten  up  most  of  his  food,  but  none  of  them 
had  caught  him  napping,  and  he  had  no  intention 
that  they  should. 

A  conspiracy  had  sprung  up  to  get  rid  of  him,  to 
harry  him  out  of  the  country,  and  behind  it  was 
Aragon.  But  now,  with  the  big  whistle  blowing, 
Aragon  would  have  other  concerns. 

He  had  his  wife  and  daughter,  the  beautiful  Gracia, 
to  hurry  to  the  town,  and  perhaps  the  thought  of 
being  caught  and  held  for  ransom  would  deter  him 
from  stealing  mines.  So  reasoned  Bud,  and,  drag 
ging  a  reluctant  pack-animal  behind  him,  he  came 
riding  in  for  supplies. 

At  the  store  he  bought  flour  and  coffee  and  the 
other  things  which  he  needed  most.  As  he  was 
passing  by  the  hotel  Don  Juan  de  Dios  halted  him 
for  a  moment,  rushing  out  and  thrusting  a  bundle 
of  letters  into  his  hands  and  hurrying  back  into  the 
house,  as  if  fearful  of  being  detected  in  such  an  act 
of  friendship. 
•^  Long  before  he  had  lost  his  pardner  Bud  had 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  177 

decided  that  Don  Juan  was  a  trimmer,  a  man  who 
tried  to  be  all  things  to  all  people — as  a  good  hotel- 
keeper  should — but  now  he  altered  his  opinion  a 
little,  for  the  letters  were  from  Phil.  He  read  them 
over  in  the  crowded  plaza,  into  which  the  first 
refugees  were  just  beginning  to  pour,  and  frowned 
as  he  skimmed  through  the  last. 

Of  Gracia  and  vain  protestations  of  devotion 
there  was  enough  and  to  spare,  but  nothing  about 
the  mine.  Only  in  the  first  one,  written  on  the  very 
day  he  had  deserted,  did  he  so  much  as  attempt  an 
excuse  for  so  precipitately  abandoning  their  claim 
and  his  Mexican  citizenship.  Phil  wrote: 

My  mail  was  being  sent  through  headquarters  and  looked  over 
by  Del  Rey,  so  I  knew  I  would  never  receive  the  papers,  even 
if  they  came.  I  hope  you  don't  feel  hard  about  it,  pardner. 
Kruger  says  to  come  out  right  away.  I  would  have  stayed 
with  it,  but  it  wasn't  any  use.  And  now,  Bud,  I  want  to  ask 
you  something.  When  you  come  out,  bring  Gracia  with  you. 
Don't  leave  her  at  the  mercy  of  Del  Rey.  I  would  come  myself 
if  it  wasn't  sure  death.  Be  quick  about  it,  Bud;  I  count 
on  you. 

The  other  letters  were  all  like  that,  but  nothing 
about  the  mine.  And  yet  it  was  the  mine  that  Bud 
was  fighting  for — that  they  had  fought  for  from  the 
first.  The  railroad  was  torn  up  now,  and  a  flight 
with  Gracia  was  hopeless,  but  it  was  just  as  well,  for 
he  never  would  abandon  the  Eagle  Tail. 

In  two  months,  or  three,  when  the  rebels  were 
whipped  off,  his  papers  might  come.  Then  he  could 
pay  his  taxes  and  transfer  his  title  and  consider  the 
stealing  of  Gracia.  But  since  he  had  seen  her  and 


i78  THE  DESERT  TRAIL      . 

touched  her  hand  something  held  him  back — a 
grudging  reluctance — and  he  was  glad  that  his  duty 
lay  elsewhere.  If  she  was  his  girl  now  he  would 
come  down  and  get  her  anyway. 

But  she  was  not  his  girl  and,  gazing  back  grimly 
at  the  seething  plaza  and  the  hotel  that  hid  her 
from  sight,  he  rode  somberly  down  the  road.  After 
all,  there  was  nothing  to  get  excited  about — every 
revoltoso  in  the  country  was  lined  up  around  Agua 
Negra  and,  with  four  hundred  soldiers  to  oppose 
them  and  artillery  to  shell  their  advance,  it  would 
be  many  a  long  day  before  they  took  that  town. 

Twice  already  Agua  Negra  had  fallen  before  such 
attacks,  but  now  it  was  protected  by  rifle-pits  and 
machine  guns  set  high  on  mud  roofs.  And  then 
there  were  the  Yaquis,  still  faithful  to  Madero. 
They  alone  could  hold  the  town,  if  they  made  up 
their  minds  to  fight.  So  reasoned  Hooker,  mulling 
over  the  news  that  he  had  heard.  But  he  watched 
the  ridges  warily,  for  the  weather  was  good  for 
raiders. 

A  day  passed,  and  then  another,  and  the  big 
whistle  blew  only  for  the  shifts;  the  loneliness  of  the 
hills  oppressed  him  as  he  gazed  out  at  the  quivering 
heat.  And  then,  like  a  toad  after  a  shower,  Amigo 
came  paddling  into  camp  on  the  heels  of  a  thunder 
storm,  his  sandals  hung  on  his  hip  and  his  big  feet 
squelching  through  the  mud. 

Across  his  shoulders  he  wore  a  gay  serape,  woven 
by  some  patient  woman  of  his  tribe;  and  in  the  belt 
beside  Bud's  pistol  he  carried  a  heavy  knife,  black- 
smithed  from  a  ten-inch  file  by  some  Yaqui  hillman. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  179 

All  in  all,  he  was  a  fine  barbarian,  but  he  looked  good 
to  the  lonely  Bud. 

"Ola,  Amigo!"  he  hailed,  stepping  out  from  the 
adobe  house  where  he  had  moved  to  avoid  the  rains; 
and  Amigo  answered  with  his  honest  smile  which 
carried  no  hint  of  savagery  or  deceit. 

Try  as  he  would,  Bud  could  not  bring  himself  to 
think  of  his  Yaqui  as  dangerous;  and  even  when  he 
balanced  the  Indian's  murderous  bowie-knife  in 
his  hands  he  regarded  it  with  a  grin.  It  was  a  heavy 
weapon,  broad  across  the  back,  keen  on  one  edge, 
and  drawn  to  a  point  that  was  both  sharp  and  strong. 
The  haft  was  wrapped  with  rawhide  to  hold  the 
clutch  of  the  hand. 

"What  do  you  do  with  this?"  queried  Hooker. 
"Chop  wood?  Skin  deer?" 

"Yes,  chop  wood!"  answered  Amigo,  but  he 
replaced  it  carefully  in  his  belt. 

He  looked  the  adobe  house  over  thoughtfully, 
listened  long  to  the  news  of  the  border  and  of  the 
rurales'  raid  on  their  camp,  and  retired  to  the  rocks 
for  the  night.  Even  Bud  never  knew  where  he 
slept — somewhere  up  on  the  hillside — in  caves  or 
clefts  in  the  rocks — and  not  even  the  most  pressing 
invitation  could  make  him  share  the  house  for  a 
night.  To  Amigo,  as  to  an  animal,  a  house  was  a 
trap;  and  he  knew  that  the  times  were  treacherous. 

So  indeed  they  were,  as  Hooker  was  to  learn  to  his 
sorrow,  and  but  for  the  Yaqui  and  his  murderous 
knife  he  might  easily  have  learned  it  too  late. 

It  was  evening,  after  a  rainless  day,  and  Bud  was 
cooking  by  the  open  fire,  when  suddenly  Amigo 


1 8o  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

vanished  and  four  men  rode  in  from  above.  They 
were  armed  with  rifles,  as  befitted  the  times,  but 
gave  no  signs  of  ruffianly  bravado,  and  after  a  few 
words  Bud  invited  them  to  get  down  and  eat. 

"  Muchas  gracias,  senor,"  said  the  leader,  dis 
mounting  and  laying  his  rifle  against  a  log,  "we  are 
not  hungry." 

"Then  have  some  coffee,"  invited  Hooker,  who 
made  it  a  point  to  feed  everyone  who  stopped, 
regardless  of  their  merit;  and  once  more  the  Mexican 
declined.  At  this  Bud  looked  at  him  sharply,  for 
his  refusal  did  not  augur  well,  and  it  struck  him  the 
man's  face  was  familiar.  He  was  tall  for  a  Mexican 
and  heavily  built,  but  with  a  rather  sinister  cast  of 
countenance. 

"Where  have  I  seen  you  before?"  asked  Bud, 
after  trying  in  vain  to  place  him.  "In  Fortuna?" 

"No,  senor,"  answered  the  Mexican  politely. 
"I  have  never  been  in  that  city.  Is  it  far?" 

"Ten  miles  by  the  trail,"  responded  Hooker,  by 
no  means  reassured,  and  under  pretext  of  inviting 
them  to  eat,  he  took  a  look  at  the  other  men.  If 
they  had  not  stopped  to  eat,  what  then  was  their 
errand  while  the  sun  was  sinking  so  low?  And 
why  this  sullen  refusal  of  the  coffee  which  every 
Mexican  drinks? 

Bud  stepped  into  the  house,  as  if  on  some  errand, 
and  watched  them  unseen  from  the  interior.  See 
ing  them  exchange  glances  then,  he  leaned  his  rifle 
just  inside  the  door  and  went  about  his  cooking. 

It  was  one  of  the  chances  he  took,  living  out  in  the 
brush,  but  he  had  come  to  know  this  low-browed 
type  of  semi-bandit  all  too  well  and  had  small  respect 


THE    DESERT  TRAIL  181 

for  their  courage.  In  case  of  trouble  Amigo  was  close 
by  in  the  rocks  somewhere,  probably  with  his  gun  in 
his  hand — but  with  a  little  patience  and  circumspec 
tion  the  unwelcome  visitors  would  doubtless  move  on. 

So  he  thought,  but  instead  they  lingered,  and  when 
supper  was  cooked  he  decided  to  go  to  a  show-down 
— and  if  they  again  refused  to  eat  he  would  send  them 
on  their  way. 

"Ven  amigos,"  he  said,  spreading  out  the  tin 
plates  for  them,  "come  and  eat!" 

The  three  low-brows  glanced  at  their  leader,  who 
had  done  what  little  talking  there  was  so  far,  and, 
seized  with  a  sudden  animation,  he  immediately  rose 
to  his  feet. 

"Many  thanks,  senor"  he  said  with  a  cringing 
and  specious  politeness.  "We  have  come  far  and 
the  trail  is  long,  so  we  will  eat.  The  times  are  hard 
for  poor  men  now — this  traitor,  Madero,  has  made 
us  all  hungry.  It  is  by  him  that  we  poor  working 
men  are  driven  to  insurrection — but  we  know  that 
the  Americans  are  our  friends.  Yes,  senor>  I  will 
take  some  of  your  beans,  and  thank  you." 

He  filled  a  plate  as  he  spoke  and  lifted  a  biscuit 
from  the  oven,  continuing  with  his  false  patter 
while  the  others  fell  to  in  silence. 

"Perhaps  you  have  heard,  senor,"  he  went  on, 
"the  saying  which  is  in  the  land: 

"  Mucho  trabajo, 
Poco  dinero; 
No  hay  j'rijoles, 
Viva  Madero!  * 

*  Much  work, 
Little  money; 
No  beans, 
Long  live  Madero! 


182  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"That,  in  truth,  is  no  jest  to  the  Mexican  people. 
This  man  has  betrayed  us  all;  he  has  ruined  the 
country  and  set  brother  against  brother.  And  now, 
while  we  starve  because  the  mines  are  shut  down, 
he  gathers  his  family  about  him  in  the  city  and  lives 
fat  on  the  money  he  has  stolen." 

He  ran  on  in  this  style,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
revoltosoSy  and  by  the  very  commonplace  of  his 
fulminations  Bud  was  thrown  completely  off  his 
guard.  That  was  the  way  they  all  talked,  these 
worthless  bandit-beggars — that  and  telling  how  they 
loved  the  Americanos — and  then,  if  they  got  a 
chance,  they  would  stick  a  knife  in  your  back. 

He  listened  to  the  big  man  with  a  polite  tolera 
tion,  being  careful  not  to  turn  his  back,  and  ate  a 
few  bites  as  he  waited,  but  though  it  was  coming 
dusk  the  Mexicans  were  in  no  hurry  to  depart. 
Perhaps  they  hoped  to  stop  for  the  night  and  get 
him  in  his  sleep.  Still  they  lingered  on,  the  leader 
sitting  on  a  log  and  continuing  his  harangue. 

Then,  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and  while  Bud 
was  bending  over  the  fire,  the  Mexican  stopped 
short  and  leaned  to  one  side.  A  tense  silence  fell, 
and  Hooker  was  waked  from  his  trance  by  the  warn 
ing  click  of  a  gun-lock.  Suddenly  his  mind  came 
back  to  his  guests,  and  he  ducked  like  a  flash,  but 
even  as  he  went  down  he  heard  the  hammer  clack! 

The  gun  had  snapped! 

Instantly  Hooker's  hand  leaped  to  his  pistol  and 
he  fired  from  the  hip  pointblank  at  the  would-be 
murderer.  With  a  yell  to  the  others,  one  of  the 
Mexicans  sprang  on  him  from  behind  and  tried  to 


He  threw  them  about  like  dogs  that  hang  onto  a  bear 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  183 

bear  him  down.  They  struggled  for  a  moment 
while  Bud  shot  blindly  with  his  pistol  and  went  down 
fighting. 

Bud  was  a  giant  compared  to  the  stunted  Mexl* 
cans,  and  he  threw  them  about  like  dogs  that  hang 
onto  a  bear.  With  a  man  in  each  hand  he  rose  to 
his  feet,  crushing  them  down  beneath  him;  then,  in 
despair  of  shaking  off  his  rider,  he  staggered  a  few 
steps  and  hurled  himself  over  backward  into  the 
fire. 

A  yell  of  agony  followed  their  fall  and,  as  the  live 
coals  bit  through  the  Mexican's  thin  shirt,  he  fought 
like  a  cat  to  get  free.  Rocks,  pots,  and  kettles  were 
kicked  in  every  direction,  and  when  Hooker  leaped 
to  his  feet  the  Mexican  scrambled  up  and  rushed 
madly  for  the  creek. 

But,  though  Bud  was  free,  the  battle  had  turned 
against  him,  for  in  the  brief  interval  of  his  fight  the 
other  two  Mexicans  had  run  for  their  guns.  The 
instant  he  rose  they  covered  him.  Their  chief,  who 
by  some  miracle  had  escaped  Bud's  shot,  gave  a 
shout  for  them  to  halt.  Cheated  of  his  victim  at  the 
first,  he  was  claiming  the  right  to  kill. 

As  Hooker  stood  blinded  by  the  smoke  and  ashes 
the  fellow  took  deliberate  aim — and  once  more  his 
rifle  snapped.  Then,  as  the  other  Mexicans  stood 
agape,  surprised  at  the  failure  of  the  shot,  the 
cannonlike  whang  of  a  Mauser  rent  the  air  and 
the  leader  crumpled  down  in  a  heap. 

An  instant  later  a  shrill  yell  rose  from  up  the 
canon  and,  as  the  two  Mexicans  started  and  stared, 
Amigo  came  dashing  in  upon  them,  a  spitting  pistol 


i84  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

in  one  hand  and  his  terrible  "wood-chopping"  knife 
brandished  high  in  the  other. 

In  the  dusk  his  eyes  and  teeth  gleamed  white, 
his  black  hair  seemed  to  bristle  with  fury,  and  the 
glint  of  his  long  knife  made  a  light  as  he  vaulted 
over  the  last  rock  and  went  plunging  on  their  track. 
For,  at  the  first  glance  at  this  huge,  pursuing  figure 
the  two  Mexicans  had  turned  and  bolted  like 
rabbits,  and  now,  as  the  Yaqui  whirled  in  after  them, 
Bud  could  hear  them  squealing  and  scrambling  as 
he  hunted  them  down  among  the  rocks. 

It  was  grim  work,  too;  even  for  his  stomach,  but 
Hooker  let  the  Indian  follow  his  nature.  When 
Amigo  came  back  from  his  hunting  there  was  no 
need  to  ask  questions.  His  eyes  shone  so  terribly 
that  Hooker  said  nothing,  but  set  about  cleaning 
up  camp. 

After  he  had  washed  the  ashes  from  his  eyes,  and 
when  the  fury  had  vanished  from  Amigo's  face, 
they  went  as  by  common  consent  and  gazed  at  the 
body  of  the  chief  of  the  desperados.  Even  in 
death  his  face  seemed  strangely  familiar;  but  as 
Hooker  stood  gazing  at  him  the  Yaqui  picked  up 
his  gun. 

"Look!"  he  said,  and  pointed  to  a  bullet-splash 
where,  as  the  Mexican  held  the  gun  across  his 
breast,  Bud's  pistol-shot  had  flattened  harmlessly 
against  the  lock.  It  was  that  which  had  saved  the 
Mexican  chief  from  instant  death,  and  the  jar  of 
the  shot  had  doubtless  broken  the  rifle  and  saved 
Bud,  in  turn,  from  the  second  shot. 

All  this  was  in  the  Yaqui's  eye  as  he  carefully 


THE   DESERT  TRAIL  185 

tested  the  action;  but,  when  he  threw  down  the 
lever,  a  cartridge  rose  up  from  the  magazine  and 
glided  smoothly  into  the  breech.  With  a  rifle  full 
of  cartridges  the  ignorant  Mexican  had  been  snap 
ping  on  an  empty  chamber,  not  knowing  enough  to 
jack  up  a  shell! 

For  a  moment  Amigo  stared  at  the  gun  and  the 
man,  and  his  mouth  drew  down  with  contempt. 

"Ha!  Pendejo!"  he  grunted,  and  kicked  the 
corpse  with  his  foot. 

But  if  the  Mexican  had  been  a  fool,  he  had  paid 
the  price,  for  the  second  time  he^ snapped  his  gun 
Amigo  had  shot  him  through  and  through. 


XX 

IN  a  country  where  witnesses  to  a  crime  are 
imprisoned  along  with  the  principals  and  kept 
more  or  less  indefinitely  in  jail,  a  man  thinks 
( twice  before  he  reports  to  the  police. 

With  four  dead  Mexicans  to  the  Yaqui's  account, 
and  Del  Ray  in  charge  of  the  district,  Hooker 
followed  his  second  thought — he  said  nothing,  and 
took  his  chances  on  being  arrested  for  murder. 
Until  far  into  the  night  Amigo  busied  himself  along 
the  hillside,  and  when  the  sun  rose  not  a  sign  re 
mained  to  tell  the  story  of  the  fight. 

Men,  horses,  saddles,  and  guns — all  had  dis 
appeared.  And,  after  packing  a  little  food  in  a 
sack,  Amigo  disappeared  also,  with  a  grim  smile 
in  promise  of  return. 

The  sun  rose  round  and  hot,  the  same  as  usual; 
the  south  wind  came  up  and  blew  into  a  bellying 
mass  of  clouds,  which  lashed  back  with  the  accus 
tomed  rain;  and  when  all  the  earth  was  washed 
clean  and  fresh  the  last  trace  of  the  struggle  was 
gone.  Only  by  the  burns  on  his  hands  was  Hooker 
aware  of  the  fight  and  of  the  treachery  which  had 
reared  its  head  against  him  like  a  snake  which  has 
been  warmed  and  fed. 

Nowhere  but  in  Mexico,  where  the  low  pelado 

classes  have  made  such  deeds  a  subtlety,  could  tb~ 

1*6 


THE   DESERT  TRAIL  187 

man  be  found  to  dissimulate  like  that  false  assassin- 
in-chief.  To  pause  suddenly  in  a  protracted  speech, 
swing  over  and  pick  up  a  gun,  and  halt  his  victim 
for  the  shooting  by  the  preparatory  click  of  the  lock 
— that  indeed  called  for  a  brand  of  cunning  rarely 
found  in  the  United  States. 

There  was  one  thing  about  the  affair  that  vaguely 
haunted  Hooker — why  was  it  that  a  man  so  cunning 
as  that  had  failed  to  load  his  gun  ?  Twice,  and  with 
everything  in  his  favor,  he  had  raised  his  rifle  to 
fire;  and  both  times  it  had  snapped  in  his  hands. 
Certainly  he  must  have  been  inept  at  arms — or 
accustomed  to  single-shot  guns. 

The  reputed  magic  of  the  swift-firing  rifles  evi 
dently  had  been  his  undoing,  but  where  had  he  got 
his  new  gun?  And  who  was  he,  anyway?  With 
those  two  baffling  questions  Bud  wrestled  as  he 
sat  beside  his  door,  and  at  evening  his  answer 
came. 

The  sun  was  swinging  low  and  he  was  collecting 
wood  down  the  gulch  for  a  fire  when,  with  a  sud 
den  thud  of  hoofs,  a  horseman  rounded  the  point 
and  came  abruptly  to  a  halt.  It  was  Aragon,  and 
he  was  spying  on  the  camp. 

For  a  full  minute  he  scanned  the  house,  tent,  and 
mine  with  a  look  so  snaky  and  sinister  that  Bud 
could  read  his  heart  like  a  book.  Here  was  the  man 
who  had  sent  the  assassins,  and  he  had  come  to 
view  their  work! 

Very  slowly  Bud's  hand  crept  toward  his  six- 
shooter,  but,  slight  as  was  the  motion,  Ara^pn  caught 
it  and  sat  frozen  in  his  place.  Then,  with  an  inar- 


i88  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

i 

ticulate  cry,  he  fell  flat  on  his  horse's  neck  and  went 
spurring  out  of  sight. 

The  answer  to  Bud's  questions  was  very  easy  now. 
The  Mexican  who  had  led  the  attempt  on  his  life 
was  one  of  Aragon's  bad  men,  one  of  the  four  gun 
men  whom  Hooker  had  looked  over  so  carefully 
when  they  came  to  drive  him  from  the  mine,  and 
Aragon  had  fitted  him  out  with  new  arms  to  make 
the  result  more  sure.  But  with  that  question 
answered  there  came  up  another  and  another  until, 
in  a  sudden  clarity  of  vision,  Bud  saw  through  the 
hellish  plot  and  beheld  himself  the  master. 

As  man  to  man,  Aragon  would  not  dare  to  face 
him  now,  for  he  knew  that  he  merited  death.  By 
his  sly  approach,  by  the  look  in  his  eyes  and  the  dis 
may  of  his  frenzied  retreat,  he  had  acknowledged 
more  surely  than  by  words  his  guilty  knowledge  of 
the  raid.  Coming  to  a  camp  where  he  expected  to 
find  all  dead  and  still,  he  had  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  the  very  man  he  had  sought  to  kill.  How, 
then,  had  the  American  escaped  destruction,  and 
what  had  occurred  to  his  men? 

Perhaps,  in  his  ignorance,  Aragon  was  raging  at 
his  hirelings  because  they  had  shirked  their  task; 
perhaps,  not  knowing  that  they  were  dead,  he  was 
waiting  in  a  fever  of  impatience  for  them  to  accom 
plish  the  deed.  However  it  was,  Bud  saw  that  he 
held  the  high  card,  and  he  wTas  not  slow  to  act. 

In  the  morning  he  saddled  up  Copper  Bottom, 
who  had  been  confined  to  the  corral  for  weeks,  and 
went  galloping  into  town.  There  he  lingered  about 
the  hotel  until  he  saw  his  man  and  started  boldly 


THE   DESERT  TRAIL  189 

toward  him.  Surprise,  alarm,  and  pitiful  fear 
chased  themselves  across  Aragon's  face  as  he  stood, 
but  Bud  walked  proudly  by. 

''Good  morning,  senor!"  was  all  Bud  said,  but  the 
look  in  his  eyes  was  eloquent  of  a  grim  hereafter. 

And  instead  of  hurrying  back  to  guard  his  precious 
mine  Hooker  loitered  carelessly  about  town.  His 
mine  was  safe  now — and  he  was  safe.  Aragon 
dared  not  raise  a  hand.  So  he  sat  himself  down  on 
the  broad  veranda  and  listened  with  boyish  interest 
to  Don  Juan's  account  of  the  war. 

"What,  have  you  not  heard  of  the  battle?"  cried 
portly  Don  Juan,  delighted  to  have  a  fresh  listener. 
"Agua  Negra  has  been  taken  and  retaken,  and  the 
railroad  will  soon  be  repaired.  My  gracious!  have 
you  been  out  in  the  hills  that  long?  Why,  it  was 
two  weeks  ago  that  the  rebels  captured  the  town  by 
a  coup,  and  eight  days  later  the  Federals  took  it 
back. 

"Ah,  there  has  been  a  real  war,  Mr.  Bud!  You 
who  have  laughed  at  the  courage  of  the  Mexicans, 
what  do  you  think  of  Bernardo  Bravo  and  his  men? 
They  captured  the  last  up  train  from  Fortuna; 
loaded  all  the  men  into  the  ore-cars  and  empty 
coaches;  and,  while  the  Federals  were  still  in  their 
barracks,  the  train  ran  clear  into  the  station  and 
took  the  town  by  storm. 

"And  eight  days  later,  at  sundown,  the  Federals 
took  it  back.  Ah,  there  was  awful  slaughter 
averted,  senor!  But  for  the  fact  that  the  fuse 
went  out  the  two  hundred  Yaqui  Indians  who  led 
the  charge  would  have  been  blown  into  eternity. 


190  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Yes,  so  great  was  the  charge  of  dynamite  that 
the  rebels  had  laid  in  their  mine  that  not  a  house  in 
Agua  Negra  would  have  been  left  standing  if  the 
fuse  had  done  its  work.  Two  tons  of  dynamite! 
Think  of  that,  my  friend! 

"But  these  rebels  were  as  ignorant  of  its  power  as 
they  were  of  laying  a  train.  The  Yaquis  walked  into 
the  town  at  sundown  and  found  it  deserted — every 
man,  woman,  and  child  had  fled  to  Gadsden  and  the 
rebels  had  fled  to  the  west. 

"But  listen,  here  was  the  way  it  happened — 
actually,  and  not  as  common  report  has  it,  for  the 
country  is  all  in  an  uproar  and  the  real  facts  were 
never  known.  When  Bernardo  Bravo  captured  the 
town  of  Agua  Negra  the  people  acclaimed  him  a  hero. 

"He  sent  word  to  the  junta  at  El  Paso  and  set 
up  a  new  form  of  government.  All  was  enthusiasm, 
and  several  Americans  joined  his  ranks  to  operate 
the  machine  guns  and  cannon.  As  for  the  Federals, 
they  occupied  the  country  to  the  east  and  attempted 
a  few  sallies,  but  as  they  had  nothing  but  their 
rifles,  the  artillery  drove  them  back. 

"Then,  as  the  battle  ceased,  the  rebels  began  to 
celebrate  their  victory.  They  broke  into  the  closed 
cantinasy  disobeying  their  officers  and  beginning  the 
loot  of  the  town,  and  while  half  of  their  number  were 
drunk  the  Federals,  being  informed  of  their  con 
dition,  suddenly  advanced  upon  them,  with  the 
Yaquis  far  in  the  lead. 

"They  did  not  shoot,  those  Yaquis;  but,  dragging 
their  guns  behind  them,  they  crept  up  through  the 
bushes  and  dug  pits  auite  close  to  the  lines.  Then, 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  191 

when  the  rebels  discovered  them  and  manned  their 
guns,  the  Yaquis  shot  down  the  gunners. 

"Growing  bolder,  they  crept  farther  to  the  front — 
the  rebels  became  disorganized,  their  men  became 
mutinous — and  at  last,  when  they  saw  they  would 
surely  be  taken,  the  leaders  buried  two  tons  of 
dynamite  in  the  trenches  by  the  bull-ring  and  set 
a  time-fuse,  to  explode  when  the  Yaquis  arrived. 

"The  word  spread  through  the  town  like  wildfire 
— all  the  people,  all  the  soldiers  fled  every  which 
way  to  escape — and  then,  when  the  worst  was 
expected  to  happen,  the  dynamite  failed  to  explode 
and  the  Yaquis  rushed  the  trenches  at  sundown." 

"Did  those  Yaquis  know  about  the  dynamite?" 
inquired  Bud. 

"Know?"  repeated  Don  Juan,  waving  the 
thought  away.  "Not  a  word!  Their  commanders 
kept  it  from  them,  even  after  they  discovered  the 
mine.  And  now  the  Indians  are  making  boasts; 
they  are  drunk  with  the  thought  of  their  valor  and 
claim  that  the  rebels  fled  from  them  alone. 

"The  roadmaster  came  into  town  this  morn 
ing  on  a  velocipede  and  said  that  the  Yaquis  are 
insufferable,  thinking  that  it  was  their  renown  as 
fighters  and  not  the  news  of  the  dynamite  that 
drove  all  the  soldiers  from  town. 

"However,  Agua  Negra  is  once  more  in  the  hands 
of  the  government;  the  track  is  clear  and  most  of 
the  bridges  repaired;  so  why  quarrel  with  the 
Yaquis?  While  they  are,  of  course,  nothing  but 
Indians,  they  serve  their  purpose  in  battle." 

"Well,   I   guess  yes!"   responded   Bud  warmly. 


192  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Serve  their  purpose,  eh?  Where  were  these 
Mexican  soldiers  and  them  Spanish  officers  when  the 
Yaquis  were  taking  the  town?  And  that  was  just 
like  a  dog-goned  Mexican — setting  that  time-fuse 
and  then  not  having  it  go  off.  More'n  likely  the 
poor  yap  that  fired  it  was  so  scairt  he  couldn't 
hold  a  match — probably  never  lit  it,  jest  dropped 
the  match  and  run.  They're  a  bum  bunch,  if  you 
want  to  know  what  I  think.  I'd  rather  have  a 
Yaqui  than  a  hundred  of  'em!" 

"A  hundred  of  whom?"  inquired  a  cool  voice 
behind  him,  and  looking  up  Hooker  saw  the  beauti 
ful  Gracia  gazing  out  at  him  through  the  screen  door. 

"A  hundred  Mexicans!"  he  repeated,  and  Gracia 
murmured  "Oh!"  and  was  gone. 

"Miss  Aragon  is  very  loyal  to  her  country," 
observed  Don  Juan,  but  Hooker  only  grunted. 

Somehqw,  since  those  four  Mexicans  had  come  to 
his  camp,  he  had  soured  on  everything  south  of  the 
line;  and  even  the  charming  Gracia  could  not  make 
him  take  back  his  words.  If  she  had  intended  the 
remark  as  a  challenge — a  subtle  invitation  to  follow 
her  and  defend  his  faith — she  failed  for  once  of  her 
purpose,  for  if  there  was  any  particular  man  in 
Mexico  that  Bud  hated  more  than  another  it  was 
her  false-hearted  father. 

Hooker  had,  in  fact,  thought  more  seriously  of 
making  her  a  half-orphan  than  of  winning  her  good 
will,  and  he  lingered  about  the  hotel,  not  to  make 
love  to  the  daughter,  but  to  strike  terror  to  Aragon. 

The  company  being  good,  and  a  train  being 
expected  soon,  Bud  stayed  over  another  day.  In 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  193 

the  morning,  when  he  came  down  for  breakfast,  he 
found  that  Aragon  had  fled  before  him.  With  his 
wife  Juan,  daughter,  and  retinue,  he  had  moved  sud 
denly  back  to  his  home.  Hooker  grinned  when  Don 
told  him  the  news. 

"Well,  why  not?"  he  asked,  chuckling  maliciously. 
"Here  it's  the  middle  of  the  rainy  season  and 
the  war  going  on  all  summer  and  nary  a  rebel  in 
sight.  Where's  that  big  fight  you  was  telling  about 
— the  battle  of  Fortuna?  You've  made  a  regular 
fortune  out  of  these  refugees,  Brachamonte,  but  I 
fail  to  see  the  enemy." 

"Ah,  you  may  laugh,"  shrugged  the  hotel-keeper, 
"but  wait!  The  time  will  come.  The  rebels  are 
lost  now — some  day,  when  you  least  expect  it,  they 
will  come  upon  us  and  then,  believe  me,  my  guests 
will  be  glad  they  are  here.  What  is  a  few  weeks' 
bill  compared  to  being  held  for  ransom?  Look  at 
that  rich  Senor  Luna  who  was  here  for  a  time  in  the 
spring.  Against  my  advice  he  hurried  home  and 
now  he  is  paying  the  price.  Ten  thousand  pesos 
it  cost  to  save  his  wife  and  family,  and  for  him 
self  and  son  his  friends  advanced  ten  thousand 
more.  I  make  no  evil  prophecies,  but  it  would  be 
better  for  our  friend  if  he  stayed  on  at  my  poor 
hotel." 

"Whose  friend?"  inquired  Bud  bluffly,  but  Don 
Juan  struck  him  upon  the  back  with  elephantine 
playfulness  and  hurried  off  to  his  duties. 

As  for  Hooker,  he  tarried  in  town  until  he  got  his 
mail  and  a  copy  of  the  Sunday  paper  and  then,  well 
satisfied  that  the  times  were  quiet  and  wars  a  thing 


i94  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

of  the  past,  he  ambled  back  to  the  Eagle  Tail  and 
settled  down  for  a  rest. 

Flat  on  his  back  by  the  doorway,  he  lay  on  his 
bed  and  smoked,  reading  his  way  through  the  lurid 
supplement  and  watching  the  trail  with  one  eye. 
Since  the  fight  with  Aragon's  Mexicans  all  his 
apprehensions  had  left  him.  He  had  written  briefly 
to  Phil  and  Kruger,  and  now  he  was  holding  the  fort. 

It  had  been  a  close  shave,  but  he  had  escaped  the 
cowardly  assassins  and  had  Aragon  in  his  power — 
not  by  any  force  of  law,  but  by  the  force  of  fear 
and  the  gnawing  weakness  of  Aragon's  own  evil 
conscience. 

Aragon  was  afraid  of  what  he  had  done,  but  it 
was  the  suspense  which  rendered  him  so  pitiable. 
On  a  day  he  had  sent  four  armed  Mexicans  to  kill 
this  Texan — not  one  had  returned  and  the  Texan 
regarded  him  sneeringly.  This  it  was  that  broke 
the  Spaniard's  will,  for  he  knew  not  what  to  think. 
But  as  for  Bud,  he  lay  on  his  back  by  the  doorway 
and  laughed  at  the  funny  page. 

As  he  sprawled  there  at  his  reading,  Amigo  came 
in  from  the  hills,  and  he,  too,  was  content  to  relax. 
Gravely  scanning  the  colored  sheet,  his  dark  face 
lighted  up. 

It  was  all  very  peaceful  and  pleasant,  but  it  was 
not  destined  to  last. 


XXI 

ON    the    morning     after     they     had     laughed 
at  the  comic  paper  and  decided  that  all  the 
world  was  fair,  Hooker  and  Amigo    were 
squatting  by  the  fire  and  eating  a  man's-size  break 
fast. 

The  creek,  swollen  by  yesterday's  torrential  rain, 
had  settled  to  a  rivulet.  The  wind  had  not  risen 
and  the  sun  was  just  over  the  hill  when,  with  a  rush 
and  a  scramble,  Amigo  threw  down  his  cup  and  was 
off  in  a  flash  for  the  rocks. 

A  moment  later  two  men  rode  dowTn  the  canon, 
and  then  two  more,  and  two  more.  It  was  a  column 
of  men,  all  armed  with  rifles,  and  they  cast  envious 
eyes  at  Copper  Bottom  as  they  halted  before  the 
camp.  As  for  Bud,  he  saluted  gravely,  for  he  knew 
them  for  what  they  were. 

These  were  the  lost  forces  of  Bernardo  Bravo  and 
Salazar,  Rojas,  and  the  other  bandit  chiefs,  and  they 
marched,  as  he  well  knew,  upon  Fortuna.  They 
marched  quietly,  and  the  great  whistle  had  not 
blown. 

It  would  make  a  rich  prize,  Fortuna,  if  they  could 
take  it  by  surprise!  The  ransom  for  the  Spanish 
haciendados  alone  would  amount  to  thousands  of 
dollars,  and  the  mine-owners  could  afford  to  pay 
anything  in  order  to  save  their  works. 

195 


196  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

A  box  of  dynamite  under  the  giant  concentrator 
and  the  money  would  be  produced  at  once  and  yet 
the  scoundrels  halted  at  a  one-man  camp  to  steal  a 
single  horse! 

A  flicker  of  scorn  passed  over  Hooker's  face  as  the 
leader  came  dashing  up,  but  the  Texan  greeted  him 
with  a  slow  smile. 

"Buenos  dias,  general!"  he  said.  "You  have 
many  men." 

"Enough!"  observed  the  "general"  hurriedly. 
"But  some  in  the  rear  are  on  foot.  As  I  suppose 
you  are  in  sympathy  with  our  great  cause,  I  will 
ask  you  for  that  horse.  Of  course,  I  will  give  you  a 
receipt." 

He  fetched  out  a  blank-book  as  he  spoke  and 
motioned  to  a  ragged  beggar  at  his  heels.  Bud 
checked  the  man's  rush  with  a  look. 

"One  moment!"  he  said,  and  as  the  soldier  turned 
back  his  general  glanced  up  sharply. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"Only  this,  Senor  General,"  answered  Bud. 
"You  are  welcome  to  anything  I  have — food, 
blankets,  money — but  I  cannot  give  you  that 
horse." 

"But,  senor,"  protested  the  general,  regarding 
him  with  arrogant  pig  eyes  that  glinted  wickedly, 
"this  poor  soldier's  feet  are  sore.  Surely  you  would 
not  make  him  walk.  Only  name  your  price  and  I 
will  give  you  a  receipt  for  him,  but  my  man  must 
have  the  horse." 

There  was  a  pause  and  men  began  to  dismount  and 
move  in  closer.  At  a  word  from  their  commander 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  197 

any  one  of  them  would  draw  and  kill  him,  as  Hooker 
very  well  knew,  but  his  love  for  Copper  Bottom 
made  him  obdurate. 

"If  the  man  is  lame,"  he  said,  "I  will  give  him 
another  horse — but  he  cannot  have  this  sorrel/' 

He  stepped  quickly  over  to  the  corral  and  turned 
with  his  back  to  the  gate,  while  the  commander  spat 
out  orders  in  Spanish  and  armed  men  came  running. 

"  Senor,"  he  said,  advancing  bruskly  upon  the 
defiant  Hooker,  "I  must  trouble  you  for  that 
pistol." 

"No,  senor!"  answered  the  cowboy,  keeping  his 
hand  upon  his  gun,  "not  to  you  nor  no  man — and 
I'll  never  give  it  up  to  a  Mexican!" 

"Cardi!"  exclaimed  the  officer  impatiently,  "you 
are  an  Americano — no?" 

"Not  only  that,"  rumbled  Bud,  drawing  himself 
up  in  his  pride,  "I  am  a  Tejano  also,  and  if  any  man 
touches  that  horse  I'll  kill  him!" 

His  voice  trembled  with  anger,  but  his  hand  was 
steady  and  the  Mexicans  did  not  deceive  themselves. 

"Ha,  uno  Tejano!"  murmured  the  men  who  stood 
about,  and  one  or  two  who  had  started  to  climb  the 
fence  thought  better  of  it  and  dropped  back  to  the 
ground. 

Bud  knew  the  fate  of  several  men  who  had  pro 
claimed  themselves  Americans  to  the  insurrectos — 
boastfully  done,  it  was  said  to  be  the  quickest  way 
there  was  of  drawing  a  Mexican  bullet.  But  to  be  a 
Texan  was  different — somehow  the  very  name 
suggested  trouble  to  their  minds  and  an  Alamo 
fight  to  the  death.  Hooker  saw  that  he  had  made 


198  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

an  impression,  and  he  was  not  slow  to  follow 
it  up. 

"If  you  need  a  horse,"  he  said  to  the  general, 
"let  your  man  go  up  that  arroyo  and  he  will  find  one 
hobbled  on  the  flat.  Then  give  me  your  receipt  for 
two  hundred  dollars  gold  and  I  will  contribute  a 
saddle." 

It  was  a  reasonable  concession,  under  the  cir 
cumstances,  and,  best  of  all,  it  saved  the  general's 
face.  The  hideous  frown  with  which  he  had 
regarded  the  American  changed  suddenly  to  a  look 
of  pompous  pride.  He  jerked  an  imperious  head  at 
his  ragged  retainer  and  drew  forth  his  receipt-book 
with  a  flourish. 

While  he  waited  for  the  horse  to  appear  he  turned 
upon  his  snooping  men  and  drove  them  to  their 
mounts  with  curses.  Evidently  it  was  no  sinecure 
to  command  in  the  army  of  the  liberation,  and  the 
veiled  mutterings  of  his  followers  showed  that  they 
were  little  better  than  tigers  in  leash. 

Mounted  upon  horses,  mules,  and  even  burros, 
armed  with  every  conceivable  weapon  from  a 
musket  to  standard  repeating  rifles,  they  were  a 
tatterdemalion  army,  more  fit  for  "treason,  strate- 
gems,  and  spoils"  than  the  sterner  duties  of  war. 

Bud  looked  them  over  closely,  well  satisfied  to 
have  his  back  against  a  wall,  and  when  the  low 
browed  retainer  came  hurrying  back  with  the  horse 
he  quickly  took  the  worthless  receipt  and  watched 
them  on  their  way.  Then,  as  the  last  camp- 
follower  disappeared,  he  ran  for  his  saddle  and  rifle 
and  within  a  minute  he  was  mounted  and  away. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  199 

There  were  rebels  below  him — very  likely  there 
were  more  to  come — the  only  safe  place  for  Copper 
Bottom  was  over  the  hills  at  Fortuna.  Without 
stopping  for  path  or  trail  he  headed  straight  north 
west  over  the  ridges,  riding  as  the  cowboys  do  when 
they  rake  the  range  for  cattle.  Hardly  had  he 
topped  the  first  high  crest  when  he  came  in  sight  of 
Amigo,  loaded  down  with  his  cartridge-belts  and 
carrying  his  heavy  Mauser. 

In  a  long,  shambling  trot  the  Yaqui  was  drifting 
along  the  hillside  with  the  free  grace  of  a  wild  crea 
ture,  and  when  Hooker  pulled  down  his  horse  to 
keep  pace  with  him  he  laughed  and  motioned  him 
on.  Taking  the  lead,  he  loped  on  over  hogback  and 
barranca,  picking  out  the  best  trail  by  instinct  and 
setting  such  a  pace  that  Bud  was  hard-pressed  to 
keep  up  with  him. 

He  had  heard  it  said  that  in  the  Yaqui  country 
no  white  man,  no  matter  how  well  he  was  mounted, 
could  outdistance  the  Indians  on  foot,  and  now  he 
knew  it  was  true.  But  why  this  killing  haste  on 
the  part  of  Amigo?  He  had  neither  friends  nor  kin 
in  town;  why,  then,  should  he  run  so  fast  to  warn 
them  of  the  enemy? 

They  racked  on,  up  one  hill  and  down  another, 
while  the  insurrectos  followed  the  canon  that  s\vung 
to  the  south,  and  finally,  in  a  last  scramble,  they 
mounted  a  rocky  ridge  and  looked  down  upon  Old 
Fortuna. 

Already  the  hard-driven  peons  were  out  in  the 
fields  at  work  and  smoke  was  rising  from  the  mescal 
still.  Aragon  was  busy,  but  his  labors  would  be 


200  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

worse  than  wasted  if  the  red-flaggers  took  him  pris 
oner.  As  Bud  breathed  his  horse  he  hesitated 
whether  to  ride  back  and  warn  him  or  press  on  and 
notify  Fortuna;  but  even  for  that  brief  spell  the 
Yaqui  could  not  wait. 

"  Adios"  he  said,  coming  close  and  holding  out 
his  black  hand;  "I  go  this  way!"  And  he  pointed 
along  the  ridge. 

"But  why?"  said  Bud,  still  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  his  haste.  Then,  seeing  the  reticence  in  the 
Indian's  eyes,  he  thrust  out  his  hand  in  return. 

"  Adios,  amigo  miof"  he  replied,  and  with  a  quick 
grip  the  Yaqui  was  gone. 

With  that  same  deceptive  speed  he  shambled 
through  the  bushes,  still  lugging  the  heavy  rifle  and 
making  for  higher  ground.  Bud  knew  he  had  some 
purpose — he  even  had  a  sneaking  idea  that  it  was  to 
take  pot-shots  at  Captain  del  Rey — but  six  months 
in  Mexico  had  made  him  careless,  and  he  half 
hoped  the  Yaqui  would  win. 

The  capitan  had  it  coming  to  him  for  his  brutality, 
but  with  Aragon  it  was  different — Aragon  had  a 
wife  and  daughter — and,  with  the  memory  of  Gracia 
in  his  mind,  Bud  sent  his  horse  plunging  down  the 
ridge  to  warn  them  before  it  was  too  late. 

There  were  some  brush  fences  to  be  jumped,  but 
Copper  Bottom  took  them  flying,  and  as  they  cut 
into  the  river  trail  he  made  the  mud-puddles  splash." 
Across  the  fields  to  the  south  Bud  could  see  the 
peons  running  for  cover — the  insurrectos  must  be 
in  sight  beyond  the  hills. 

He  was  going  south,  they  were  moving  west,  but 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  201 

it  was  five  miles  north  again  to  the  town.  Speed 
was  what  was  needed  and  Copper  Bottom  gave  his 
best.  They  dashed  into  Fortuna  like  a  whirlwind, 
and  Hooker  raised  his  voice  in  a  high  yell. 

"  Insurrectos!"  he  shouted.  "  Ladrones!  Pr-onto 
a  Fortuna!" 

There  was  a  hush,  a  moment's  silence,  and  then 
heads  appeared  from  every  window  and  women  ran 
screaming  with  the  news.  Aragon  came  rushing 
from  the  store  and  confronted  him  angrily;  then, 
reading  conviction  in  his  tones,  he  called  for  horses 
and  ran  frantically  into  the  house. 

A  shrill  screech  came  from  the  hillside,  where 
a  serving-woman  had  scampered  to  view  the  valley, 
and,  as  she  pointed  her  finger  and  screamed,  mothers 
laid  hold  of  their  little  ones  and  started  up  the  valley 
on  foot. 

Still  the  men  ran  about  in  the  horse-pen  and 
Aragon  adjured  his  womenfolk  in  the  house.  Burn 
ing  with  impatience,  Bud  spurred  his  way  to  the 
corral  where  they  were  fumbling  with  reata  and 
rigging  and  dropped  a  rope  on  the  first  horse  he  saw. 
Then  he  snatched  a  side-saddle  from  a  trembling 
peon  and  slapped  it  on  the  brute's  back.  Grabbing 
up  the  bridle,  he  led  the  horse  back  to  the  house 
and  bridled  it  while  he  shouted  for  haste. 

Still  the  women  tarried,  and  the  sound  of  gallop 
ing  came  from  the  south.  Then,  as  all  seemed  lost, 
the  Mexicans  came  bumping  out  from  the  stable 
with  the  family  coach,  Aragon  and  his  wife  leaped 
in,  and  Gracia,  neatly  attired  in  a  riding-skirt, 
came  tripping  down  the  steps. 


202  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

Even  in  such  times  as  these  she  seemed  to  realize 
her  first  duty  to  herself,  and  Hooker  had  to  gaze  for 
a  moment  before  he  helped  her  up.  She  offered  her 
foot  and  vaulted  lightly  into  the  saddle;  the  coach 
went  pounding  on  ahead;  and  as  the  servants 
scattered  before  her  she  galloped  off  at  the  side  of 
Bud. 

Behind  them  the  rumble  of  distant  hoofs  rose 
Up  like  the  roaring  of  waters,  and  the  shrieks  of 
fleeing  women  echoed  from  the  roadside,  but  once 
safely  in  the  canon  their  lead  was  never  lessened 
and,  with  coach-horses  galloping  and  postilions 
lashing  from  both  sides,  the  whole  cavalcade  swept 
into  the  plaza  while  the  town  of  Fortuna  went  mad. 

Already  the  great  whistle  was  blowing  hoarsely, 
its  deep  reverberations  making  the  air  tremble  as  if 
with  fear.  Americans  were  running  back  and  forth, 
distributing  arms  and  rushing  their  women  to  cover; 
Don  Juan,  his  chin  quivering  with  excitement,  was 
imploring  all  comers  to  be  calm;  and  the  Aragons, 
coming  flying  up  to  the  door,  added  the  last  touch 
to  the  panic. 

They  with  their  own  eyes  had  seen  the  rebels; 
they  were  riding  in  from  the  south!  Other  men, 
equally  excited,  swore  they  were  coming  from  the 
north,  and  a  disorderly  body  of  Sonoran  miners, 
armed  as  if  by  magic  with  guns  which  had  long  lain 
hidden,  banked  themselves  about  the  store  and 
office  and  clamored  for  more  and  more  cartridges. 
Then  a  rip  of  gun-fire  echoed  from  across  the  canon, 
and  the  miners  made  a  rush  to  the  attack. 

The  whistle,  which  had  obscured  all  sound  as  $ 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  203 

cloud  obscures  the  light,  stopped  suddenly  in  its 
roar,  and  the  crowd  at  the  hotel  became  calm. 
The  superintendent,  a  wiry,  gray-haired  little  man 
with  decision  in  every  movement,  came  running 
from  his  fortlike  house  on  the  hill  and  ordered  all 
the  women  to  take  shelter  there  and  take  their 
children  with  them. 

So,  while  the  rifles  rattled  and  stray  bullets  began 
to  knock  mud  from  the  walls,  they  went  straggling 
up  the  hill,  rich  and  poor,  patrician  and  peon,  while 
the  air  was  rent  by  the  wails  of  the  half-Indian 
Mexican  wromen  who  held  themselves  as  good  as 
captured  by  the  revoltosos,  concerning  whose  scru 
ples  they  entertained  no  illusions. 

The  women  of  the  aristocracy  bore  themselves 
with  more  reserve,  as  befitting  their  birth  and 
station,  and  the  Americans  who  gathered  about 
them  with  their  protecting  rifles  pretended  that 
all  would  be  well;  but  in  the  mind  of  everyone  was 
that  same  terror  which  found  expression  in  the  peon 
wail  and,  while  scattered  rebels  and  newly  armed 
miners  exchanged  volleys  on  both  sides  of  the  town, 
the  non-combatant  Americans  sought  out  every 
woman  and  rushed  her  up  to  the  big  house.  There, 
if  worst  came  to  worst,  they  could  make  a  last  stand, 
or  save  them  by  a  ransom. 

So,  from  the  old  woman  who  kept  the  candy 
stand  in  the  plaza  to  the  wives  of  the  miners  and 
the  cherished  womenfolk  of  the  landowners,  they 
were  all  crowded  inside  the  broad  halls  of  the  big 
house;  and  seventy-odd  Americans,  armed  with 
company  rifles,  paced  nervously  along  the  broad 


204  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

verandas  or  punched  loopholes  in  the  adobe  walls 
that  enclosed  the  summer-garden  behind. 

Along  with  the  rest  went  Hooker  and  Gracia,  and, 
though  her  mother  beckoned  and  her  father  frowned 
sternly,  the  wilful  daughter  of  the  Aragons  did  not 
offer  to  leave  him  as  they  scampered  up  the  hill.  In 
fact,  she  rode  close  beside  him,  spurring  when  he 
spurred  and,  finally,  when  the  shower  of  stray  bullets 
had  passed,  she  led  on  around  the  house. 

"Won't  you  help  me  take  my  horse  inside  the 
walls?"  she  asked.  Bud  followed  after  her,  circling 
the  fortress  whose  blank  adobe  walls  gave  shelter 
to  the  screaming  women,  and  she  smiled  upon  him 
with  the  most  engaging  confidence. 

"I  know  you  will  have  to  go  soon,"  she  said, 
"and  I  suppose  I've  got  to  be  shut  in  with  those 
creatures,  but  we  must  be  sure  to  save  our  horses. 
Some  bullets  might  hit  them,  you  know,  and  then 
we  could  not  run  away! 

"You  remember  your  promise!"  she  reminded, 
as  Bud  gazed  at  her  in  astonishment.  "Ah,  yes, 
I  knew  you  did — otherwise  you  would  not  have 
picked  such  a  good  horse  for  me.  This  roan  is  my 
father's  best  riding-horse.  You  must  put  yours  in 
side  the  wall  with  him,  and  when  the  time  is  right 
we  will  get  them  and  ride  for  the  line." 

"What?"  cried  Hooker  incredulously,  "with  the 
country  full  of  rebels?  They're  liable  to  take  the 
town  in  half  an  hour!" 

"No,  indeed  they  will  not!"  responded  Gracia 
with  spirit.  "You  do  not  understand  the  spirit 
of  us  Sonorans!  Can't  you  see  how  the  firing  has 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  205 

slackened?  The  miners  have  driven  your  rebels 
back  already,  and  they  will  do  more — they  will 
follow  them  up  and  kill  them!  Then,  when  the 
rebels  are  in  flight  and  Del  Rey  and  his  rurales  are 
away,  that  will  be  a  good  time  for  us  to  slip  off 
and  make  our  dash  for  the  line!" 

"Nothing  doing!"  announced  Hooker,  as  he  dis 
mounted  at  the  corral.  "You  don't  know  what  you're 
talking  about!  But  I  will  leave  my  horse  here," 
he  added.  "I  sure  don't  want  him  to  get  hurt." 

"But  you  promised!"  protested  Gracia  weakly. 

"Promised  nothing!"  retorted  Bud  ungraciously. 
"I  promised  to  take  care  of  you,  didn't  I?  Well, 
what's  the  use  of  talking,  then?  You  better  stay 
right  here,  where  you're  safe.  Come  on,  let's  go  to 
the  house!" 

"No!"  cried  Gracia,  her  dark  eyes  turning  misty 
with  imminent  tears.  "Oh,  Mr.  Hooker!"  she 
burst  out,  "didn't  I  keep  them  all  waiting  while  I 
put  on  this  riding-skirt?  I  thought  you  had  come 
to  take  me  away!  What  do  I  care  to  be  safe?  I 
want  to  be  free!  I  want  to  run  away — and  go 
across  the  line  to  dear  Phil!"  she  faltered.  Then 
she  looked  up  at  him  sharply  and  her  voice  took  on 
an  accusing  tone. 

"Aha!"  she  said,  as  if  making  some  expected  dis 
covery,  "so  that  is  it!  I  thought  perhaps  you  were 
afraid!" 

"What?"  demanded  Bud,  put  suddenly  upon  the 
defensive. 

"I  might  have  known  it,"  soliloquized  Gracia 
with  conviction.  "You  are  jealous  of  dear  Phil!" 


206  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Who?  Me?"  cried  Hooker,  smiling  down  at 
her  grimly  "Well,  let  it  go  at  that,"  he  said,  as 
she  regarded  him  with  an  arch  smile.  "I'd  cer 
tainly  be  a  fool  to  take  all  those  chances  for  nothing. 
Let  him  steal  his  own  girl — that's  what  I  say!" 

"Now  that,  Mr.  Hooker,"  burst  out  Gracia  in  a 
passion,  "is  very  unkind — and  rude!  Am  I  a 
woman  of  the  town,  to  be  stolen  by  one  man  or 
another?  Ami — " 

"That's  what  you  would  be,"  put  in  Bud,  with 
brutal  directness,  "if  these  rebels  got  hold  of  you. 
No,  ma'am,  I  wouldn't  take  you  out  of  this  town  for 
a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  You  don't  know  what 
you're  talking  about,  that's  all!  Wait  till  the  fight 
ing  is  over—  Gee!  Did  you  hear  that?  Come  on, 
let's  get  into  the  house!" 

He  ducked  suddenly  as  a  bullet  went  spang 
against  the  corrugated  iron  roof  above  them  and, 
seizing  her  by  the  hand,  he  half  dragged  her  through 
a  side  door  and  into  the  summer  garden. 

Here  a  sudden  outcry  of  women's  voices  assailed 
their  ears  like  a  rush  of  wind  and  they  beheld  peon 
mothers  running  to  and  fro  with  their  screaming 
children  clasped  to  their  breasts  or  dragging  at  their 
skirts.  A  few  helpless  men  were  trying  to  keep 
them  quiet,  but  as  the  bullets  began  to  thud  against 
the  adobe  walls  the  garden  became  a  bedlam. 

Gracia  stood  and  surveyed  the  scene  for  a  moment, 
ignoring  the  hulking  Bud  with  disdainful  eyes. 
Then  she  snatched  her  hand  indignantly  away  and 
ran  to  pick  up  a  child.  That  was  all,  but  Hooker 
knew  what  she  thought  of  him. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  207 

He  passed  through  the  house,  hoping  to  discover 
where  she  had  gone,  but  all  he  heard  was  her  com 
manding  voice  as  she  silenced  the  wailing  women, 
and,  feeling  somehow  very  much  out  of  place,  he 
stepped  forth  into  the  open. 

After  all,  for  a  man  of  his  build,  the  open  was 
best.  Let  the  white-handed  boys  stay  with  the 
ladies — they  understood  their  ways. 


XXII 

THE  superintendent's  house  stood  on  a  low 
bench  above  the  town,  looking  out  over 
all  the  valley,  but  protected  by  a  high  hill 
behind,  upon  the  summit  of  which  was  placed  a 
mammoth  black  water-tank. 

In  its  architecture  the  casa  grande  was  an  exact 
replica  of  a  hot-country  hacienda,  a  flat-roofed,  one- 
storied  square  of  adobe  bricks,  whitewashed  to 
keep  off  the  sun  and  presenting  on  three  sides  noth 
ing  but  the  dead  walls  of  house  and  garden,  with 
dense  trees  planted  near  for  shade.  Along  the  front 
was  a  long  arcade,  the  corrector,  graced  by  a  series 
of  massive  arches  which  let  in  the  light  and  air. 
Inside  were  low  chambers  and  long  passages;  and, 
behind,  the  patio  and  garden  of  orange  and  fig  trees. 

Built  for  a  sumptuous  dwelling,  it  became  in  a 
moment  a  fort  and,  with  men  on  the  high  hill  by  the 
tank,  it  was  practically  impregnable  to  direct  assault. 

As  Hooker  stepped  out  onto  the  covered  porch 
with  his  saddle-gun  in  his  hand  be  became  simply 
one  more  of  a  band  of  excited  Americans,  all  armed 
and  ready  to  defend  the  house  to  the  last.  Some 
were  pacing  back  and  forth  in  the  corrector,  others 
were  hurrying  up  from  the  Mexican  quarters  with  a 
last  belated  handful  of  women,  but  the  major 
portion  were  out  on  the  open  bench,  either  gazing 

208 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  209 

north  and  south  at  the  scenes  of  the  distant  firing 
or  engaging  in  a  curio-mad  scramble  for  any  spent 
bullet  that  struck. 

The  fighting,  such  as  there  was,  was  mostly  up 
the  canon,  where  a  large  party  of  Sonoran  miners 
had  rushed  in  pursuit  of  the  rebels.  The  firing  down 
the  canon  in  the  direction  of  Old  Fortuna  had  died 
away  to  nothing,  and  for  the  moment  if  seemed  as 
if  the  futile  charge  and  retreat  were  the  beginning 
and  the  end  of  the  battle. 

A  party  of  rebels  had  penetrated  clear  into  the 
town,  but  it  was  apparently  more  by  accident 
than  intention,  and  they  had  been  quick  to  beat  a 
retreat.  As  for  the  main  command  of  the  insur- 
rectos,  they  were  reported  at  Chular,  six  miles  up  the 
railroad,  where  they  had  surrounded  and  taken  a 
small  mining  camp  and  captured  a  train  at  the  sum 
mit. 

The  column  to  the  south — the  one  which  Hooker 
had  encountered — had  taken  to  the  high  hills  west 
of  the  town,  and,  along  the  sky-line  of  the  buttelike 
summits,  they  could  now  be  seen  in  scattered  bands 
making  their  way  to  the  north. 

The  defenders  of  Fortuna  consisted  of  a  rag-tag 
garrison  of  twenty  Federals  and  the  hot-headed, 
charging  miners.  But  apparently  that  was  a  com 
bination  hard  to  beat,  for,  while  the  Federals  en 
trenched  themselves  behind  the  black  tank  on  the 
hill  and  prepared  to  protect  the  town,  the  Sonorans 
in  shouting  masses  drove  everything  before  them 
and  marched  on  to  attack  Chular. 

But  in  this  they  made  a  mistake,  for  the  rebel 


210  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

scouts,  seeing  the  great  body  of  defenders  pressing  on 
up  the  narrow  canon,  rode  back  and  informed  the 
tricky  Bernardo  Bravo.  He  would  be  a  poor 
general  indeed  who  could  not  see  the  opening  that 
was  offered  and,  while  the  valiant  Sonorans  pursued 
the  rebel  cavalry  up  the  pass,  Bernardo  Bravo  sent 
the  half  of  his  thousand  men  to  cut  off  their  retreat 
from  behind. 

Along  the  broad  top  of  the  mountain  above  thej 
came  scampering  by  tens  and  twenties,  closing  in 
with  a  vastly  superior  force  upon  the  now  defense 
less  town.  In  the  depths  of  the  canon  below  the 
miners  were  still  chasing  the  elusive  cavalry,  their 
firing  becoming  faint  as  they  clambered  on  toward 
the  summit  and  the  rebel  headquarters  at  Chular. 

They  had,  in  fact,  been  handled  like  children, 
and  the  Americans  joined  in  contemptuous  curses 
of  their  mistaken  bravery  as  they  beheld  in  what 
straits  it  had  left  them. 

Forbidden  by  the  superintendent  to  participate 
in  the  combat,  yet  having  in  their  care  the  women 
of  the  camp,  they  were  compelled  to  stand  passively 
aside  while  rebels  by  the  hundred  came  charging 
down  the  ridges.  Only  in  the  last  resort,  and  when 
all  diplomacy  and  Federal  defense  had  failed,  would 
they  be  allowed  to  so  much  as  cock  a  rifle.  And 
yet — well,  twenty  determined  Americans  might 
easily  turn  back  this  charge. 

Taking  advantage  of  his  Mexican  citizenship, 
Hooker  was  already  on  the  run  for  the  trenches 
when  the  superintendent  stopped  him  with  a  look. 

"Let  the  Mexicans  fight  it  out,"  he  said.     "They 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  211 

might  resent  it  if  you  took  sides,  and  that  would 
make  it  bad  for  us.  Just  wait  a  while — you  never 
can  tell  what  will  happen.  Perhaps  the  rurales 
and  Federals  will  stand  them  off." 

"What,  that  little  bunch ?"  demanded  Bud, 
pointing  scornfully  at  the  handful  of  defenders  who 
were  cowering  behind  their  rock-piles.  "Why,  half 
of  them  pelones  don't  know  what  a  gun  was  made 
for,  and  the  rurales — " 

"Well,  the  rebels  are  the  same,"  suggested  the 
superintendent  pacifically.  "Let  them  fight  it 
out — we  need  every  American  we  can  get,  so  just 
forget  about  being  a  Mexican." 

"All  right,"  agreed  Bud,  as  he  yielded  reluc 
tantly  to  reason.  "It  ain't  because  I'm  a  Mexican 
citizen — I  just  want  to  stop  that  rush." 

He  walked  back  to  the  house,  juggling  his  useless 
gun  and  keeping  his  eye  on  the  distant  ridges.  And 
then,  in  a  chorus  of  defiant  yells,  the  men  in  the 
Federal  trenches  began  to  shoot. 

In  an  air-line  the  distance  was  something  over  a 
mile,  but  at  the  first  scattering  volley  the  rebels 
halted  and  fired  a  volley  in  return.  With  a  vicious 
spang  a  few  stray  bullets  smashed  against  the 
reverberating  steel  tank,  but  no  one  was  hurt,  and 
the  defenders,  drunk  with  valor,  began  to  .shoot  and 
yell  like  mad. 

The  bullets  of  the  rebels,  fired  at  random,  struck 
up  dust-jets  in  every  direction,  and  from  the  lower 
part  of  the  town  came  the  shouting  of  the  non- 
combatant  Mexicans  as  they  ran  here  and  there 
for  shelter.  But  by  the  trenches,  and  in  the  rear 


212  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

of  the  black  tank,  the  great  crowd  of  onlookers 
persisted,  ducking  as  each  successive  bullet  hit  the 
tank  and  shouting  encouragement  as  the  defenders 
emptied  their  .rifles  and  reloaded  with  clip  after  clip. 

The  rifles  rattled  a  continuous  volley;  spent 
bullets  leaped  like  locusts  across  the  flat;  men  ran 
to  and  fro,  now  crouching  behind  the  tank,  now 
stepping  boldly  into  the  open;  and  the  defiant 
shouts  of  the  defenders  almost  drowned  the  wails  of 
the  women.  Except  for  one  thing  it  was  a  battle — 
there  was  nobody  hurt. 

For  the  first  half-hour  the  Americans  stayed 
prudently  under  cover,  busying  themselves  at  the 
suggestion  of  a  few  American  women  in  providing 
a  first-aid  hospital  on  the  sheltered  porch.  Then, 
as  no  wounded  came  to  fill  it  and  the  rebels  delayed 
their  charge,  one  man  after  another  climbed  up  to 
the  trenches,  ostensibly  to  bring  down  the  injured. 

As  soldiers  and  bystanders  reported  no  one  hit, 
and  the  bullets  flew  harmlessly  past,  their  solicitude 
turned  rapidly  to  disgust  and  then  to  scorn.  Strange 
as  it  may  seem,  they  were  disappointed  at  the 
results,  and  their  remarks  were  derogatory  as  they 
commented  on  the  bravery  of  pelones  and  Mexicans 
in  general. 

From  a  dread  of  imminent  attack,  of  charging 
rebels  and  retreating  defenders,  and  a  fight  to  the 
death  by  the  house,  they  came  suddenly  to  a  desire 
for  blood  and  battle,  for  dead  men  and  the  cries  of 
the  wounded;  and  all  fear  of  the  insurrectos  left 
them. 

"Come   away,   boys/'   grunted   the   burly   road- 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  213 

master,  who  up  to  then  had  led  in  the  work;  "we 
wasted  our  time  on  that  hospital — there'll  be  no 
wounded.  Let's  take  ourselves  back  to  the  house 
and  have  a  quiet  smoke." 

"Right  you  are,  Ed,"  agreed  the  master  mechanic, 
as  he  turned  upon  his  heel  in  disgust.  "This  ain't 
war — them  Mexicans  think  they're  working  for  a 
moving-picture  show!" 

"I  bet  you  I  can  go  up  on  that  ridge,"  announced 
Hooker,  "and  clean  out  the  whole  bunch  with  my 
six-shooter  before  you  could  bat  your  eye." 

But  the  superintendent  was  not  so  sure. 

"Never  mind,  boys,"  he  said.  "We're  worth  a 
lot  of  ransom  money  to  those  rebels  and  they  won't 
give  up  so  quick.  And  look  at  this  now — my 
miners  coming  back!  Those  are  the  boys  that  will 
fight!  Wait  till  Chico  and  Ramon  Mendoza  get 
after  them!" 

He  pointed  as  he  spoke  to  a  straggling  band  of 
Sonorans,  led  by  the  much-vaunted  Mendoza 
brothers,  as  they  hurried  to  save  the  town,  and  a 
cheer  went  up  from  the  trenches  as  the  Federals 
beheld  reenforcements.  But  a  change  had  come 
over  the  fire-eating  miners,  and  they  brought  other 
rebels  in  their  wake. 

As  they  trudged  wearily  into  town  and  sought 
shelter  among  the  houses  a  great  body  of  men 
appeared  on  the  opposite  ridge,  firing  down  at  them 
as  they  retreated.  The  battle  rapidly  turned  into 
a  long-distance  shooting  contest,  with  the  rebels  on 
the  ridges  and  the  defenders  in  the  valley,  and 
finally,  as  the  day  wore  on  and  a  thunder-storm 


2i4  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

came  up,  it  died  out  altogether  and  the  rebels 
turned  back  to  their  camp. 

Except  for  one  lone  Federal  who  had  shot  him 
self  by  accident  there  was  not  a  single  defender  hurt, 
and  if  the  enemy  had  suffered  losses  it  was  only  by 
some  such  chance.  But  when  the  Sonoran  patriots, 
holding  up  their  empty  belts,  came  clamoring  for 
ammunition,  the  men  by  the  big  house  took  in  the 
real  catastrophe  of  the  battle 

Seventeen  thousand  rounds  of  the  precious  thirty- 
thirties  had  been  delivered  to  the  excited  miners 
and  now,  except  for  what  few  the  Americans  had 
saved,  there  was  not  a  cartridge  in  camp.  Very 
soberly  the  superintendent  assured  the  leaders  that 
he  had  no  more.  They  pointed  at  the  full  belts  of  the 
American  guard  and  demanded  them  as  their  right; 
and  when  the  Americans  refused  to  yield  they  flew 
into  a  rage  and  threatened. 

All  in  all,  it  was  a  pitiful  exhibition  of  hot-head- 
edness  and  imbecility,  and  only  the  firmness  of  the 
superintendent  prevented  a  real  spilling  of  blood. 
The  Mexicans  retired  in  a  huff  and  broke  into  the 
cantina,  and  as  the  night  came  on  the  valley  re 
echoed  to  their  drunken  shoutings. 

Such  was  war  as  the  Sonorans  conceived  it. 
When  Hooker,  standing  his  guard  in  the  corrector, 
encountered  Gracia  Aragon  on  her  evening  walk,  he 
could  scarcely  conceal  a  grin. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at,  Senor  Hooker?" 
she  demanded  with  asperity.  "Is  it  so  pleasant, 
with  a  houseful  of  frightened  women  and  screaming 
children,  that  you  should  make  fun  of  our  plight?" 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  215 

"No,  indeed,"  apologized  Bud;  "nothing  like 
that.  Sure  must  be  bad  in  there — I  stay  outside 
myself.  But  I  reckon  it'll  soon  be  over  with.  The 
Mexicans  here  in  town  have  shot  off  all  their  am 
munition  and  I  reckon  the  rebels  have  done  the  same. 
Like  as  not  they'll  all  be  gone  to-morrow,  and  then 
you  can  go  back  home." 

"Oh,  thank  you  for  thinking  about  me!"  she 
returned  with  a  scornful  curl  of  the  lip.  "But  if 
all  men  were  as  open  as  you,  Mr.  Hooker,  we  women 
would  never  need  to  ask  a  question.  This  morning 
you  told  me  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  talking 
about — now  I  presume  you  are  thinking  what 
cowards  the  Mexicans  are! 

"Oh,  I  know!  You  need  not  deny  it!  You  are 
nothing  but  a  great  big — Tejano!  Yes,  I  was  going 
to  say  'brute,'  but  you  are  a  friend  of  dear  Phil's, 
and  so  I  will  hold  my  tongue.  If  it  wasn't  for  that, 
I'd—  She  paused,  leaving  him  to  guess. 

"Oh,  I  do  wish  he  wrere  here!"  she  breathed,  lean 
ing  wearily  against  the  white  pillar  of  an  arch  and 
gazing  down  through  the  long  arcade. 

"It  was  so  close  in  there,"  she  continued,  "I  could 
not  stand  it  a  minute  longer.  These  Indian  women, 
you  know — they  weep  and  moan  all  the  time.  And 
the  children — I  am  so  sorry  for  them.  I  cannot  go 
now,  because  they  need  me;  but  to-morrow — if  Phil 
were  here — I  would  leave  and  ride  for  the  line. 

"Have  you  seen  Del  Rey  to-day?  No?  Then 
all  the  better — he  must  be  policing  the  town.  It  is 
only  of  him  I  am  afraid.  These  rebels  are  nothing — 
I  agree  with  you!  No!  I  am  not  angry  with  you 


216  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

at  all  now!  But  to-morrow,  just  at  dusk,  when  all 
is  still  as  it  is  at  this  time;  then,  if  Phil  were  here,  I 
would  mount  my  brave  horse  and  ride  out  by  the 
western  pass." 

She  ended  rather  inconclusively,  letting  her  voice 
trail  off  wistfully  as  she  waited  for  him  to  speak, 
but  something  within  moved  Hooker  to  hold  his 
peace,  and  he  looked  out  over  the  town  without 
commenting  on  her  plans.  It  was  evident  to  him 
that  slie  was  determined  to  enlist  his  sympathy  and 
involve  him  in  her  wild  plot,  and  each  time  the  con 
versation  veered  in  that  direction  he  took  refuge  in  a 
stubborn  silence. 

"What  are  you  thinking,  Mr.  Hooker?"  she 
asked  at  last,  as  he  gazed  into  the  dusk.  "Some 
times  I  scold  you  and  sometimes  I  try  to  please 
you,  but  I  never  know  what  you  think!  I  did 
not  mean  that  when  I  said  I  could  read  your 
thoughts — you  are  so  different  from  poor,  dear 
Phil!" 

"M-m-m,"  mumbled  Bud,  shifting  his  feet,  and 
his  face  turned  a  little  grim. 

"Aha!"  she  cried  with  ill-concealed  satisfaction, 
"you  do  not  like  me  to  call  him  that,  do  you? 
'Poor,  dear  Phil/ — like  that!  But  do  you  know  why 
I  do  it?  It  is  to  punish  you  for  never  coming  near 
me — when  I  signed  to  you — when  I  waited  for  you — 
long  ago!  Ah,  you  were  so  cruel!  I  wanted  to 
know  you — you  were  a  cowboy,  and  I  thought  you 
were  brave  enough  to  defend  me — but  you  always 
rode  right  by.  Yes,  that  was  it — but  Phil  was 

fferent!     He  came  when  I  sent  for  him;   he  sang 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  217 

songs  to  me  at  night;  he  took  my  part  against 
Manuel  del  Rey;  and  now — " 

"Yes!"  commented  Bud  bruskly,  with  his  mind  on 
"dear  Phil's"  finish,  and  she  turned  to  peer  into  his 
face. 

"So  that  is  it!"  she  said.  "You  do  not  trust  me. 
You  think  that  I  am  not  your  friend — that  I  will 
serve  you  as  he  was  served.  Is  that  what  you  are 
thinking?" 

"Something  like  that,"  admitted  Hooker,  leaning 
lazily  against  the  mud  wall.  "Only  I  reckon  I 
don't  think  just  the  way  you  do." 

"  Why  ?     How  do  I  think  ? "  she  demanded  eagerly. 

"Well,  you  think  awful  fast,"  answered  Hooker 
slowly.  "And  you  don't  always  think  the  same, 
seems  like.  I'm  kind  of  quiet  myself,  and  I  don't 
like — well,  I  wouldn't  say  that,  but  you  don't 
always  mean  what  you  say." 

"Oh!"  breathed  Gracia,  and  then,  after  a  pause, 
she  came  nearer  and  leaned  against  the  low  wall 
beside  him. 

"If  I  would  speak  from  my  heart,"  she  asked, 
"if  I  would  talk  plain,  as  you  Americans  do,  would 
you  like  me  better  then?  Would  you  talk  to  me 
instead  of  standing  silent?  Listen,  Bud — for  that 
is  your  name — I  want  you  to  be  my  friend  the  way 
you  were  a  friend  to  Phil.  I  know  what  you  did  for 
him,  and  how  you  bore  with  his  love-madness — and 
that  was  my  fault,  too.  But  partly  it  was  also  your 
fault,  for  you  made  me  angry  by  not  coming. 

"Yes,  I  will  be  honest  now — it  was  you  that  I 
wanted  to  know  at  first,  but  you  would  not  come, 


218  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

and  now  I  am  promised  to  Phil.  He  was  brave 
when  you  were  careful,  and  my  heart  went  out  to 
him.  You  know  how  it  is  with  us  Mexicans — we  do 
not  love  by  reason.  We  love  like  children — sud 
denly — from  the  heart!  And  now  all  I  wish  in  life 
is  to  run  away  to  Phil.  But  every  time  I  speak  of  it 
you  shut  your  jaws  or  tell  me  I  am  a  fool." 

"Ump-um,"  protested  Bud,  turning  stubborn 
again.  "I  tell  you  you  don't  know  what  you're 
talking  about.  These  rebels  don't  amount  to 
nothing  around  the  town,  but  on  a  trail  they're 
awful.  They  shoot  from  behind  rocks  and  all  that, 
and  a  woman  ain't  no  ways  safe.  You  must  know 
what  they're  like — these  old  women  don't  think 
about  nothing  else — so  what's  the  use  of  talking? 
And  besides,"  he  added  grimly,  "I've  had  some 
trouble  with  your  old  man  and  don't  want  to  have 
any  more." 

"What  trouble  have  you  had?"  she  demanded 
promptly,  but  Hooker  would  not  answer  in  words. 
'He  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  away, 
crumpling  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"But  no!"  she  cried  as  she  sensed  the  meaning 
of  his  concealment,  "you  must  tell  me!  I  want  to 
know.  Was  it  over  your  mine?  Then  you  must 
not  blame  me,  for  he  never  has  told  me  a  word!" 

"No?"  inquired  Bud,  rousing  suddenly  at  the 
memory  of  his  wrongs.  f'Then  maybe  you  will 
tell  me  how  he  got  this99-—  he  fetched  a  worn  piece 
of  ore  from  his  pocket — "when  my  pardner  rave  it 
to  you!  It  was  right  there  I  lost  my  pardner — 
and  he  was  a  good  kid,  too — and  ail  because  of  that 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  219 

rock.  Here,  take  a  look  at  it — I  took  that  away 
from  your  father ! " 

"Then  he  stole  it  from  me!"  flashed  back  Gracia 
as  she  gazed  at  the  specimen.  "Oh,  have  you 
thought  all  the  time  that  I  betrayed  Phil?  But 
didn't  I  tell  you — didn't  I  tell  you  at  the  hotel, 
when  you  promised  to  be  my  friend?  Ah,  I  see 
that  you  are  a  hard  man,  Mr.  Hooker — quick  to 
suspect,  slow  to  forget — and  yet  I  told  you  before! 
But  listen,  and  I  will  tell  you  again.  I  remember 
well  when  dear  Phil  showed  me  this  rock — he  was 
so  happy  because  he  had  found  the  gold.  And 
just  to  make  it  lucky  he  let  me  hold  it  while  we  were 
talking  through  a  hole  in  the  wall.  Then  my  father 
saw  me  and  started  to  come  near — I  could  not 
hand  it  back  without  betraying  Phil — and  in  the 
night,  when  I  was  asleep,  some  one  took  it  from  under 
my  pillow.  That  is  the  truth,  and  I  will  ask  you  to 
believe  me;  and  if  you  have  other  things  against 
me  you  must  say  what  they  are  and  see  if  I  cannot 
explain. 

"No!"  she  ran  on,  her  voice  vibrant  with  the 
memory  of  past  quarrels.  "I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  my  father!  He  does  not  love  me,  but  tries  to 
make  me  marry  first  one  man  and  then  another. 
But  I  am  an  American  girl  now,  at  heart — I  do  not 
want  to  sell  myself;  I  want  to  marry  for  love!  Can 
you  understand  that?  Yes?  No?  Then  why  do 
you  look  away  ?  Have  you  something  that  you  hold 
against  me?  Ah,  you  shake  your  head — but  you 
will  not  speak  to  me!  When  I  was  at  school  in  Los 
Angeles  I  saw  the  cowboys  in  the  West  show,  and 


220  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

they  were  different — they  were  not  afraid  of  any 
danger,  but  they  would  talk,  too.  I  have  always 
wanted  to  know  you,  but  you  will  not  let  me — I 
thought  you  were  brave — like  those  cowboys." 
,  She  paused  to  make  him  speak,  but  Hooker  was 
tongue-tied.  There  was  something  about  the  way 
she  talked  that  pulled  him  over,  that  made  him 
want  to  do  what  she  said,  and  yet  some  secret, 
hidden  voice  was  always  crying:  "Beware!"  He 
was  convinced  now  that  she  had  never  been  a 
party  to  treachery;  no,  nor  even  wished  him  ill. 

She  was  very  beautiful,  too,  in  the  twilight,  and 
when  she  drew  nearer  he  moved  away,  for  he  was 
afraid  she  would  sway  him  from  his  purpose.  But 
now  she  was  waiting  for  some  answer — some  word 
from  him,  though  the  question  had  never  been  asked. 
And  yet  he  knew  what  it  was. 

,  She  wanted  him  to  "steal  away  with  her  in  the 
evening  and  ride  for  the  border — and  Phil.  That 
was  what  she  always  wanted,  no  matter  what  she 
said,  and  now  she  was  calling  him  a  coward. 

"Sure  them  bronco-riders  are  brave,"  he  said 
in  vague  defense;  "but  there's  a  difference  be 
tween  being  brave  and  foolish.  And  a  man  might 
be  brave  for  himself  and  yet  be  afraid  for  other 
people." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  4she  asked. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  might  be  willing  to  go  out  and 
fight  a  thousand  of  them  insurrectos  with  one  hand, 
and  at  the  same  time  be  afraid  to  take  you  along. 
Or  I  might—" 

"Oh,  then  you  will  go,  won't  you?"  she  cried, 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  221 

clasping  him  by  the  hand.     "You  will,  won't  you? 
I'm  not  afraid!" 

"No,"  answered  Bud,  drawing  his  hand  away, 
"that's  just  what  I  won't  do!  And  I'll  tell  you  why. 
That  country  up  there  is  full  of  rebels — the  lowest 
kind  there  are.  It  just  takes  one  shot  to  lay  me 
out  or  cripple  one  of  our  horses.  Then  I'd  have  to 

make    a  fight  for  it — but    what  would  happen  to 

?j  > 
j~~- 

"I'd  fight,  too!"  spoke  up  Gracia  resolutely. 
"I'm  not  afraid." 

"No,"  grumbled  Bud,  "you  don't  know  them 
rebels.  You've  been  shut  up  m  a  house  all  the 
time — if  you'd  been  through  what  I  have  in  the 
last  six  months  you'd  understand  what  I  mean." 

"If  Phil  wrere  here,  he'd  take  me!"  countered 
Gracia,  and  then  Bud  lost  his  head. 

"Yes,"  he  burst  out,  "that's  jest  what's  the  matter 
with  the  crazy  fool!  That's  jest  why  he's  up  across 
the  line  now  a  hollering  for  me  to  save  his  girl! 
He's  brave,  is  he?  Well,  why  don't  he  come  down, 
then,  and  save  you  himself?  Because  he's  afraid 
to!  He's  afraid^of  getting  shot  or  going  up  against 
Manuel  del  Rey.  By  grab!  it  makes  me  tired  the 
way  you  people  talk!  If  he'd  done  what  I  told  him 
to  in  the  first  place  he  wouldn't  have  got  into  this 
jack-pot!" 

"Oh,  my!"  exclaimed  Gracia,  aghast.  "Why, 
what  is  the  matter  with  you?  And  what  did  you 
tell  him  to  do?" 

"I  told  him  to  mind  his  own  business,"  answered 
Hooker  bluntly. 


222  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"He  said  he'd  try  anything — once!" 

Bud  spat  out  the  phrase  vindictively,  for  his 
blood  was  up  and  his  heart  was  full  of  bitterness. 

"Oh,  dear!"  faltered  Gracia.  "And  so  you  do 
not  think  that  Phil  is  brave?" 

"He's  brave  to  start  things,"  sneered  Bud,  "but 
not  to  carry  'em  through!" 

For  a  moment  Gracia  huddled  up  against  a  pillar, 
her  hand  against  her  face,  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow. 
Then  she  lowered  it  slowly  and  moved  reluctantly 
away. 

"I  must  go  now,"  she  said,  and  Bud  did  not  offer 
to  stay  her,  for  he  saw  what  his  unkindness  had 
done. 

"I  am  sorry!"  she  added  pitifully,  but  he  did  not 
answer.  There  was  nothing  that  he  could  say  now. 

Jin  a  moment  of  resentment,  driven  to  exaspera 
tion  by  her  taunts,  he  had  forgotten  his  pledge  to 
his  pardner  and  come  between  him  and  his  girl. 
That  which  he  thought  wild  horses  could  not  draw 
from  him  had  flashed  out  in  a  fit  of  anger — and  the 
damage  was  beyond  amendment,  for  what  he  had 
said  was  the  truth. 


XXIII 

THERE  are  two  things,  according  to  the 
saying,  which  cannot  be  recalled — the  sped 
arrow  and  the  spoken  word.  Whether 
spoken  in  anger  or  in  jest  our  winged  thoughts  will 
not  come  back  to  us  and,  where  there  is  no  balm 
for  the  wound  we  have  caused,  there  is  nothing  to 
do  but  let  it  heal. 

Bud  Hooker  was  a  man  of  few  wyords,  and  slow 
to  speak  ill  of  any  one,  but  some  unfamiliar  devil 
had  loosened  his  tongue  and  he  had  told  the  worst 
about  Phil.  Certainly  if  a  man  were  the  bravest 
of  the  brave,  certainly  if  he  loved  his  girl  more  than 
life  itself — he  would  not  be  content  to  hide  above  the 
line  and  pour  out  his  soul  on  note-paper.  But  to 
tell  it  to  the  girl — that  was  an  unpardonable  sin ! 

Still,  now  that  the  damage  was  done,  there  was 
no  use  of  vain  repining,  and  after  cursing  himself 
whole-heartedly  Bud  turned  in  for  the  night. 
Other  days  were  coming;  there  were  favors  he  might 
do;  and  perhaps,  as  the  yesterdays  went  by,  Gracia 
would  forgive  him  for  his  plain  speaking.  Even 
to-morrow,  if  the  rebels  came  back  for  more,  he 
might  square  himself  in  action  and  prove  that  he 
was  not  a  coward.  A  coward! 

It  had  been  a  long  time  since  any  one  had  used 
that  word  to  him,  but  after  the  way  he  had  knifed 

223 


224  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"dear  Phil"  he  had  to  admit  he  was  it.  But  "dear 
Phil"!  It  was  that  which  had  set  him  off. 

If  she  knew  how  many  other  girls — but  Bud  put 
a  sudden  quietus  on  that  particular  line  of  thought. 
As  long  as  the  world  stood  and  Gracia  was  in  his 
sight  he  swore  never  to  speak  ill  of  De  Lancey  again, 
and  then  he  went  to  sleep. 

The  men  who  guarded  the  casa  grande  slept 
uneasily  on  the  porch,  lying  down  like  dogs  on  empty 
sugar-sacks  that  the  women  might  not  lack  bedding 
inside.  Even  at  that  they  were  better  off,  for  the 
house  was  close  and  feverish,  with  the  crying  of 
babies  and  the  babbling  of  dreamers,  and  mothers 
moving  to  and  fro. 

It  was  a  hectic  night,  but  Bud  slept  it  out,  and  at 
dawn,  after  the  custom  of  his  kind,  he  arose  and 
stamped  on  his  boots.  The  moist  coolness  of  the 
morning  brought  the  odor  of  wet  greasewood  and 
tropic  blossoms  to  his  nostrils  as  he  stepped  out  to 
speak  with  the  guards,  and  as  he  stood  there  waiting 
for  the  full  daylight  the  master  mechanic  joined  him. 

He  was  a  full-bodied,  round-headed  little  man  with 
determined  views  on  life,  and  he  began  the  day,  as 
usual,  with  his  private  opinion  of  Mexicans.  They 
were  the  same  uncomplimentary  remarks  to  which 
he  had  given  voice  on  the  day  before,  for  the  rebels 
had  captured  one  of  his  engines  and  he  knew  it 
would  come  to  some  harm. 

"A  fine  bunch  of  hombres,  yes,"  he  ended,  "and 
may  the  devil  fly  away  with  them!  They  took 
No.  9  at  the  summit  yesterday  and  I've  been  listen 
ing  ever  since.  Her  pans  are  all  burned  out  and 


THE   DESERT  TRAIL  225 

we've  been  feeding  her  bran  like  a  cow  to  keep  her 
from  leaking  steam.  If  some  ignorant  Mex  gets 
hold  of  her  you'll  hear  a  big  noise — and  that'll  be 
the  last  of  No.  9 — her  boiler  will  burst  like  a  wet  bag. 

"If  I  was  running  this  road  there'd  be  no  more 
bran — not  since  what  I  saw  over  at  Aguas  Calientes 
on  the  Central.  One  of  those  bum,  renegade  engine- 
drivers  had  burned  out  No.  743,  but  the  rebels  had 
ditched  four  of  our  best  and  we  had  to  send  her  out. 
Day  after  day  the  boys  had  been  feeding  her  bran 
until  she  smelled  like  a  distillery.  The  mash  was 
oozing  out  of  her  as  Ben  Tyrrell  pulled  up  to  the 
station,  and  a  friend  of  his  that  had  come  down 
from  the  north  took  one  sniff  and  swung  up  into  the 
cab. 

"Ben  came  down  at  the  word  he  whispered — for 
they'd  two  of  'em  blowed  up  in  the  north — and  they 
sent  out  another  man.  Hadn't  got  up  the  hill 
when  the  engine  exploded  and  blew  the  poor  devil 
to  hell!  I  asked  Tyrrell  what  his  friend  had  told 
him,  but  he  kept  it  to  himself  until  he  could  get 
his  time.  It's  the  fumes,  boy — they  blow  up  like 
brandy — and  old  No.  9  is  sour! 

"She'll  likely  blow  up,  too.  But  how  can  we 
fix  her  with  these  ignorant  Mexican  mechanics? 
You  should  have  been  over  at  Aguas  the  day  they 
fired  the  Americans. 

"'No  more  Americanos!'  says  Madero.  'Let  'em 
all  out  and  hire  Mexicans!  The  national  railroads 
of  Mexico  must  not  be  in  the  hands  of  foreigners.' 

"So  they  fired  us  all  in  a  day  and  put  a  Mexican 
wood-passer  up  in  the  cab  of  old  No.  313.  He 


226  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

started  to  pull  a  string  of  empties  down  the  track, 
threw  on  the  air  by  mistake,  and  stopped  her  on  a 
dead-center.  Pulled  out  the  throttle  and  she 
wouldn't  go,  so  he  gave  it  up  and  quit. 

"Called  in  the  master  mechanic  then — a  Mexican. 
He  tinkered  with  her  for  an  hour,  right  there  on  the 
track,  until  she  went  dead  on  their  hands.  Then 
they  ran  down  a  switch-engine  and  took  back  the 
cars  and  called  on  the  roadmaster — a  Mex.  He 
cracked  the  nut — built  a  shoo-fly  around  No.  313 
and  they  left  her  right  there  on  the  main  track. 
Two  days  later  an  American  hobo  came  by  and  he 
set  down  and  laughed  at  'em.  Then  he  throws  off 
the  brakes,  gives  No.  3133  boost  past  the  center  with 
a  crowbar,  and  runs  her  to  the  roundhouse  by 
gravity.  When  we  left  Aguas  on  a  hand-car  that 
hobo  was  running  the  road. 

"Ignorantest  hombres  in  the  world — these  Mex 
icans.  Shooting  a  gun  or  running  an  engine,  it's 
all  the  same — they've  got  nothing  above  the  eye 
brows." 

"That's  right,"  agreed  Bud,  who  had  been  cran 
ing  his  neck;  "but  what's  that  noise  up  the  track?" 

The  master  mechanic  listened,  and  when  his  ears, 
dulled  by  the  clangor  of  the  shops,  caught  the  dis 
tant  roar  he  turned  and  ran  for  the  house. 

"Git  up,  Ed!"  he  called  to  the  roadmaster. 
"They're  sending  a  wild  car  down  the  canon — and 
she  may  be  loaded  with  dynamite!" 

"Dynamite  or  not,"  mumbled  the  grizzled  road- 
master,  as  he  roused  up  from  his  couch,  "there's  a 
derailer  I  put  in  up  at  kilometer  seventy  the  first 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  227 

thing  yesterday  morning.  That'll  send  her  into 
the  ditch!" 

Nevertheless  he  listened  intently,  cocking  his 
head  to  guess  by  the  sound  when  it  came  to  kilo 
meter  seventy. 

"Now  she  strikes  it!"  he  announced,  as  the  rum 
ble  turned  into  a  roar;  but  the  roar  grew  louder, 
there  was  a  clash  as  the  trucks  struck  a  curve,  and 
then  a  great  metal  ore-car  swung  round  the  point, 
rode  up  high  as  it  hit  the  reverse  and,  speeding  by 
as  if  shot  from  a  catapult,  swept  through  the  yard, 
smashed  into  a  freight-car,  and  leaped,  car  and  all, 
into  the  creek. 

"They've  sneaked  my  derailer!"  said  the  road- 
master,  starting  on  a  run  for  the  shops.  "Who'll 
go  with  me  to  put  in  another  one?  Or  we'll  loosen 
a  rail  on  the  curve — that'll  call  for  no  more  than  a 
claw-bar  and  a  wrench!" 

"I'll  go!"  volunteered  Bud  and  the  man  who 
stood  guard,  and  as  startled  sleepers  roused  up  on 
every  side  and  ran  toward  the  scene  of  the  wreck 
they  dashed  down  the  hill  together  and  threw  a 
hand-car  on  the  track. 

Then,  with  what  tools  they  could  get  together, 
and  a  spare  derailer  on  the  front,  they  pumped 
madly  up  the  canon,  holding  their  breaths  at  every 
curve  for  fear  of  what  they  might  see.  If  there  was 
one  runaway  car  there  was  another,  for  the  rebels 
were  beginning  an  attack. 

Already  on  the  ridges  above  them  they  could  hear 
the  crack  of  rifles,  and  a  jet  or  two  of  dust  made  it 
evident  that  they  were  the  mark.  But  with  three 


228  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

strong  men  at  the  handles  they  made  the  hand 
car  jump.  The  low  hills  fled  behind  them.  They 
rounded  a  point  and  the  open  track  lay  before 
them,  with  something— 

"Jump!"  shouted  the  roadmaster,  and  as  they 
tumbled  down  the  bank  they  heard  a  crash  behind 
them  and  their  hand-car  was  knocked  into  kindling- 
wood. 

"Now  up  to  the  track!"  the  roadmaster  panted, 
as  the  destroyer  swept  on  down  the  line.  "Find 
some  tools — we'll  take  out  a  rail!" 

With  frantic  eagerness  he  toiled  up  the  fill  and 
attacked  a  fish-plate,  and  Bud  and  the  }^oung  guard 
searched  the  hillside  for  tools  to  help  with  the  work. 
They  fell  to  with  sledge  and  claw-bar,  tapping  off 
nuts,  jerking  out  spikes,  and  heaving  to  loosen  the 
rail — and  then  once  more  that  swift-moving  some 
thing  loomed  up  suddenly  on  the  track. 

"Up  the  hill!"  commanded  the  roadmaster,  and 
as  they  scrambled  into  a  gulch  a  wild  locomotive, 
belching  smoke  and  steam  like  a  fire-engine,  went 
rushing  past  them,  struck  the  loose  rail,  and  leaped 
into  the  creek-bed.  A  moment  later,  as  it  crashed 
its  way  down  to  the  water,  there  was  an  explosion 
that  shook  the  hills.  They  crouched  behind  the 
cut  bank,  and  the  trees  above  them  bowed  suddenly 
to  the  slash  of  an  iron  hail. 

"Dynamite!"  cried  the  roadmaster,  grinning 
triumphantly  as  he  looked  up  after  the  shock;  and 
when  the  fall  of  fragments  had  ceased,  and  they  had 
fled  as  if  by  instinct  from  the  place,  they  struck 
hands  on  their  narrow  escape.  But  back  at  the 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  ,  229 

big  house,  with  everybody  giving  thanks  for  their 
delivery  from  the  powder-train,  the  master  mechanic 
raised  a  single  voice  of  protest. 

"'Twas  not  dynamite!"  he  yelled.  "Powder- 
train  be  damned!  It  was  No.  9!  She  was  sour  as 
a  distillery!  She  blowed  up,  I  tell  ye — she  blowed 
up  when  she  hit  the  creek!" 

And  even  after  a  shower  of  bullets  from  the 
ridge  had  driven  them  all  to  cover  he  still  rushed  to 
those  who  would  listen  and  clamored  that  it  was  the 
bran. 

But  there  was  scant  time  to  hold  a  post-mortem 
on  No.  9,  for  on  the  summit  of  a  near-by  ridge,  and 
overlooking  the  black  tank,  the  rebels  had  thrown 
up  a  wall  in  the  night,  and  from  the  security  of  this 
shelter  they  were  industriously  shooting  up  the 
town. 

The  smash  of  the  first  wild  car  had  been  their 
signal  for  attack,  and  as  the  explosion  threw  the 
defenders  into  confusion  they  made  a  rush  to  take 
the  tank.  Here,  as  on  the  day  before,  was  stationed 
the  Federal  garrison,  a  scant  twenty  or  thirty  men 
in  charge  of  a  boy  lieutenant. 

Being  practically  out  of  ammunition,  he  did  not 
stand  on  the  order  of  his  going,  but  as  his  pelones 
pelted  past  the  superintendent's  house  the  reorgan 
ized  miners,  their  belts  stuffed  with  cartridges  from 
their  own  private  stock,  came  charging  up  from  the 
town  and  rallied  them  in  the  rear. 

In  a  solid,  shouting  mass  they  swept  up  the  hill 
together,  dropped  down  behind  the  defenses,  and 
checked  the  astounded  rebels  with  a  volley.  Then 


23o  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

there  was  another  long-range  battle,  with  every 
sign  of  war  but  the  dead,  until  at  last,  as  the  firing 
slackened  from  lack  of  cartridges,  a  white  flag 
showed  on  the  ridge  above,  and  the  leaders  went  out 
for  a  parley. 

Properly  speaking,  Del  Rey  was  in  command  of 
the  town,  but  neither  the  Federals  nor  the  miners 
would  recognize  his  authority  and  the  leadership 
went  by  default.  While  they  waited  to  hear  the 
rebel  demands  the  Americans  took  advantage  of 
the  truce  to  bring  up  hot  food  from  the  hotel, 
where  Don  Juan  de  Dios  stood  heroically  at  his 
post.  Let  bullets  come  and  go,  Don  Juan  kept  his 
cooks  about  him,  and  to  those  who  had  doubted  his 
valor  his  coffee  was  answer  enough. 

"W'y,  my  gracious,  Mr.  Hooker!"  he  railed,  as 
Bud  refreshed  himself  between  trips,  "ain't  you  going 
to  take  any  up  to  those  women?  Don't  drink  so 
much  coffee  now,  but  give  it  to  the  men  who  fight!" 

"Ump-um,"  grunted  Bud  with  a  grin;  "they  got 
a  skinful  of  mescal  already!  What  they  need  is 
another  car-load  of  ammunition  to  help  'em  shoot 
their  first  rebel." 

"I  thought  you  said  they  wouldn't  fight!" 
twitted  Don  Juan.  "This  is  the  battle  of  Fortuna 
that  I  was  telling  you  about  last  week." 

"Sure!"  answered  Bud.  "And  over  there  is  the 
dead!" 

He  pointed  to  a  riot  of  mescal  bottles  that  marked 
the  scene  of  the  night's  potations,  and  Don  Juan 
gave  him  up  as  hopeless. 

But,  jest  as  he  would,  Bud  saw  that  the  situation 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  231 

was  serious,  for  the  foolhardy  Sonorans  had  already 
emptied  their  cartridge-belts,  and  their  guns  were 
no  better  than  clubs.  Unless  the  rebels  had  been 
equally  reckless  with  their  ammunition  they  had  the 
town  at  their  mercy,  and  the  first  thing  that  they 
would  demand  would  be  the  refugees  in  the  big  house. 

The  possession  of  the  town;  the  arms  of  the 
defenders;  food,  clothing,  and  horses  to  ride — none 
of  these  would  satisfy  them.  They  would  demand 
the  rich  Spanish  landowners  to  be  held  for  ransom, 
the  women  first  of  all.  And  of  all  those  women 
huddled  up  in  the  casa  grande  not  one  would  bring 
a  bigger  ransom  than  Gracia  Aragon. 

Bud  pondered  the  outcome  as  the  emissaries 
wrangled  on  the  hillside,  and  then  he  went  back  to 
the  corral  to  make  sure  that  his  horse  was  safe. 
Copper  Bottom,  too,  might  be  held  for  ransom. 
But,  knowing  the  rebels  as  he  did,  Hooker  foresaw 
a  different  fate,  and  rather  than  see  him  become  the 
mount  of  some  rebel  chieftain  he  had  determined, 
if  the  town  surrendered,  to  make  a  dash. 

Riding  by  night  and  hiding  in  the  hills  by  day,  he 
could  get  to  the  border  in  two  days.  All  he  needed 
was  a  little  jerked  beef  for  the  trip  and  he  would  be 
ready  for  anything. 

So  he  hurried  down  to  the  hotel  again  and  was 
just  making  a  sack  of  food  fast  to  his  saddle  when 
he  heard  a  noise  behind  him  and  turned  to  face 
Aragon.  For  two  days  the  once-haughty  Don 
Cipriano  had  slunk  about  like  a  sick  cat,  but  now  he 
was  headed  for  Gracia's  big  roan,  and  the  look  in 
his  eyes  betrayed  his  purpose. 


232  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Where  you  going?"  demanded  Hooker  in  Eng 
lish,  and  at  the  gruff  challenge  the  Spaniard  stopped 
in  his  tracks.  The  old,  hunted  look  came  back  into 
his  eyes,  he  seemed  to  shrink  before  the  stern  gaze 
of  the  Texan,  and,  as  the  memory  of  his  past  mis 
deeds  came  over  him,  he  turned  as  if  to  flee. 

But  there  was  a  smile,  an  amused  and  tolerant 
smirk,  about  the  American's  mouth,  and  even  for 
that  look  of  understanding  the  harried  haciendado 
seemed  to  thank  him.  He  was  broken  now,  thrown 
down  from  his  pedestal  of  arrogance  and  conceit, 
and  as  Hooker  did  not  offer  to  shoot  him  at  sight  he 
turned  back  to  him  like  a  lost  dog  that  seeks  but  a 
kind  word. 

"Ah,  senary "  he  whined,  "your'pardon !  What ? " 
as  he  sighted  the  sack  of  meat.  "You  are  going, 
too?  Ah,  my  friend" — his  eyes  lighted  up  suddenly 
at  the  thought — "let  me  ride  with  you!  I  will  pay 
you — yes,  anything — but  if  Bernardo  Bravo  takes 
me  he  will  hang  me!  He  has  sworn  it!" 

"Well,  you  got  it  coming  to  you!"  answered 
Hooker  heartlessly. 

"But  I  will  pay  you  well!"  pleaded  Aragon.  "I 
will  pay  you—  He  paused  as  if  to  consider  what 
would  tempt  him  and  then  suddenly  he  raised  his 
head. 

"What  is  it  you  wish  above  everything?"  he 
questioned  eagerly.  "Your  title  to  the  mine — no? 
Bicn!  Take  me  to  the  line — protect  me  from  my 
enemies — and  the  papers  are  yours!" 

"Have  you  got  them  with  you?"  inquired  Hooker 
with  businesslike  directness. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  233 

"No,  but  I  can  get  them!"  cried  Aragon,  forgetful 
of  everything  but  his  desire  to  escape.  "I  can  get 
them  while  you  saddle  my  horse!" 

"Where?"  demanded  Hooker  craftily. 

"From  the  agente  mineral!19  answered  Aragon. 
"I  have  a  great  deal  of  influence  with  him,  and — ' 

"  Bast  ante! yy  exploded  Bud  in  a  voice  which  made 
Aragon  jump.  "Enough!  If  you  can  get  them,  / 
can!  And  we  shall  see,  Sefior  Aragon,  whether  this 
pistol  of  mine  will  not  give  me  some  influence,  too!" 

"Then  you  will  take  them?"  faltered  Aragon  as 
Hooker  started  to  go.  "You  will  take  them  and 
leave  me  for  Bernardo  Bravo  to — " 

"Listen,  senor!"  exclaimed  Hooker,  halting  and 
advancing  a  threatening  forefinger.  "A  man  who 
can  hire  four  men  to  do  his  dirty  work  needs  no 
protection  from  me.  You  understand  that — no? 
Then  listen  again.  I  am  going  to  get  those  papers. 
If  I  hear  a  word  from  you  I  will  send  you  to  join 
your  four  men." 

He  touched  his  gun  as  he  spoke  and  strode  out 
into  the  open,  where  he  beckoned  the  mineral  agent 
from  the  crowd.  A  word  in  his  ear  and  they  went 
down  the  hill  together,  while  Don  Cipriano  watched 
from  above.  Then,  as  they  turned  into  the  office, 
Aragon  spat  out  a  curse  and  went  to  seek  Manuel 
del  Rey. 


XXIV 

IN  a   land  of    class  privilege  and  official  graft 
it  is  often  only  in   times  of  anarchy  that  a 
poor  man  can  get  his  rights.     For  eight  months 
Hooker  had  battled  against  the  petty    intrigue   of 
Aragon  and  the  agente  mineral,  and  then  suddenly, 
when  the  times  turned  to  war  and  fear  gripped  at 
their  hearts,  he  rose  up  and  claimed  his  own,  hold 
ing  out  his  brawny  right  hand  and  demanding  the 
concession  to  his  mine. 

In  a  day  the  whirligig  of  fortune  had  turned,  and 
it  was  the  fighting  man  who  dominated.  He  spoke 
quietly  and  made  no  threats,  but  the  look  in  his  eye 
was  enough,  and  the  agente  gave  him  his  papers. 

With  his  concession  inside  his  shirt  and  a  belt  of 
gold  around  his  waist  Bud  stepped  forth  like  a  king, 
for  there  was  nothing  left  in  Mexico  for  him.  Once 
on  his  horse  and  headed  for  the  line  and  he  could 
laugh  at  them  all.  In  Gadsden  he  could  show  title 
to  Kruger,  he  could  give  answer  for  his  trust  and 
look  the  world  in  the  eye. 

Yes,  he  was  a  man  now — but  his  wrork  was  not 
quite  done.  Up  at  the  big  house,  with  the  screech 
ing  women  around  her,  was  Gracia  Aragon,  and  he 
owed  her  something  for  his  rough  words.  To  pay 
her  for  that  he  would  stay.  Whatever  she  asked 
now  he  would  grant  it;  and  if  worst  came  to  worst 

234 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  235 

he  would  take  her  with  him  and  make  good  his 
promise  to  Phil.  He  had  given  his  word  and  that 
was  enough.  Now  he  had  only  to  wait. 

The  boy  lieutenant,  the  brothers  Mendoza,  the 
superintendent,  and  Manuel  del  Rey,  all  were  out 
on  the  hillside  talking  terms  with  Bernardo  Bravo 
and  his  chiefs.  With  the  rebels  it  was  largely  a 
bluff,  since  field-glasses  had  shown  them  to  be  short 
of  cartridges;  but  they  had  over  a  thousand  men 
massed  along  the  ridges  and,  with  courage,  could 
easily  take  the  town. 

As  for  the  Mendozas  and  their  Sonoran  miners, 
they  were  properly  chagrined  at  their  waste  of 
ammunition  and  swore  by  Santa  Guadalupe  to  fight 
it  out  with  hand-grenades.  Even  as  their  leaders 
wrangled  the  Mexican  powder-men  were  busily 
manufacturing  bombs,  and  all  the  while  the  super 
intendent  was  glancing  to  the  south,  for  swift 
couriers  had  been  sent  to  Alvarez,  the  doughty 
Spanish  haciendado  of  the  hot  country,  to  beg  him 
to  come  to  their  relief. 

Twice  before  Alvarez  had  met  the  rebels.  The 
first  time  he  spoke  them  well  and  they  ran  off*  all 
his  horses.  The  second  time  he  armed  his  Yaquis 
and  Yaqui  Mayo  rancheros  against  them  and  drove 
them  from  his  domain,  inflicting  a  sanguinary  pun 
ishment. 

Since  then  he  had  been  itching  to  engage  them  in 
a  pitched  battle,  and  when  the  word  reached  him 
he  would  come.  Two  hundred  and  forty  Yaquis, 
all  armed  with  repeating  rifles,  would  follow  at  his 
back,  and  even  with  his  boasted  thousands  Bernardo 


236  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

Bravo  could  hardly  withstand  their  valor.  So, 
while  the  rebels  parleyed,  demanding  a  ransom  of 
millions  and  threatening  to  destroy  the  town,  the 
defenders  argued  and  reasoned  with  them,  hoping 
to  kill  the  time  until  Alvarez  should  arrive. 

In  the  open  space  in  front  of  the  house  the  refugees 
gathered  in  an  anxious  group,  waiting  for  messengers 
from  the  front,  and  as  Hooker  walked  among  them 
he  was  aware  of  the  malignant  glances  of  Aragon. 
There  were  other  glances  as  well,  for  he  had  won 
great  favor  with  the  ladies  by  ditching  the  powder- 
train,  but  none  from  Gracia  or  her  mother. 

From  the  beginning  the  Senora  Aragon  had 
treated  him  as  a  stranger,  according  to  the  code  of 
her  class,  and  Hooker  had  never  attempted  to  in 
trude.  But  if  Gracia  still  remembered  that  she 
was  an  American  girl  at  heart,  she  forgot  to  show 
it  to  him.  To  all  she  was  now  the  proud  Spanish 
lady,  thrown  with  the  common  people  by  the  stress 
of  circumstances,  but  far  away  from  them  in  her 
thoughts. 

The  conference  between  the  leaders  dragged  on 
and  messengers  came  and  went  with  the  news — 
then,  after  hours  of  debate,  it  broke  up  suddenly  in 
a  row  and  the  emissaries  came  back  on  the  run. 
Even  at  that  they  narrowly  escaped,  for  the  rebels 
opened  fire  upon  them  from  the  ridges,  and  before 
they  could  get  back  to  cover  the  dandy,  Manuel  del 
Rey,  received  a  bullet-hole  through  the  crown  of  his 
hat. 

A  grim  smile  flickered  across  Bud's  face  as  he 
saw  the  damage  it  had  wrought,  for  he  knew  that 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  237 

Amigo  was  in  the  hills — and  a  bullet  shot  down-hill 
goes  high!  Some  trace  of  what  was  in  his  mind 
must  have  come  to  Del  Rey  as  he  halted  in  the  shelter 
of  the  house,  for  he  regarded  the  American  sternly 
as  Aragon  spoke  rapidly  in  his  ear.  But  if  they 
planned  vengeance  between  them  the  times  were 
not  right,  for  a  rattle  of  arms  came  from  the  lower 
town  and  the  captain  was  up  and  away  to  marshal 
his  men  to  the  defense. 

So  far  in  the  siege  Del  Rey  had  kept  under  cover, 
patrolling  the  streets  and  plaza  and  letting  the 
volunteers  fight,  but  now  the  war  had  shifted 
to  his  territory  and  his  rurales  were  running  like 
mad.  For,  matching  treachery  against  deceit, 
the  rebel  leaders  had  sent  men  around  to  slip  up  near 
the  town  and  at  the  first  fusillade  from  the  hillside 
they  came  charging  up  the  creek. 

Then  it  was  that  the  ever-watchful  rurales  proved 
their  worth.  As  the  rebels  appeared  in  the  open 
they  ran  to  the  outlying  houses  and,  fighting  from 
the  flat  roofs,  checked  the  advance  until  the  miners 
could  come  to  their  aid. 

But  in  the  confusion  another  party  of  rebels  had 
rushed  down  the  gulch  from  the  west,  and  while  the 
fight  was  going  on  in  the  lower  town  they  found  lodg 
ment  in  a  big  adobe  house.  And  now  for  the  first 
time  there  was  fighting  in  earnest — the  house-to- 
house  fighting  that  is  seen  at  its  worst  in  Mexico. 
While  women  screamed  in  the  casa  grande  and  the 
Americans  paced  to  and  fro  on  the  hill,  the  boom  of 
a  dynamite  bomb  marked  the  beginning  of  hand-to- 
hand. 


238  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

With  a  fearlessness  born  of  long  familiarity  with 
explosives  the  Sonoran  miners  advanced  valiantly 
with  their  hand-grenades — baking-powder  cans  filled 
with  dynamite  and  studded  with  fuminating  caps. 
Digging  fiercely  through  wall  after  wall  they  ap 
proached  unperceived  by  the  enemy  and  the  first 
bomb  flung  from  a  roof  filled  the  adobe  with 
wounded  and  dead. 

A  dense  pall  of  yellowish  smoke  rose  high  above  the 
town  and,  as  bomb  after  bomb  was  exploded  and 
the  yells  of  the  miners  grew  louder  with  each  success, 
the  stunned  invaders  broke  from  cover  and  rushed 
helter-skelter  up  the  gulch.  Then  there  was  a 
prodigious  shouting  from  the  Sonorans  and  more 
than  one  triumphant  grenadier  swung  his  can  of 
giant  powder  by  the  sling  and  let  it  smash  against 
the  hill  in  a  terrific  detonation. 

In  the  big  house  all  was  confusion.  Soon  the 
cheers  of  the  defenders  heralded  victory  and,  in 
spite  of  all  efforts  to  restrain  them,  the  wives  of  the 
miners  rushed  into  the  open  to  gaze  upon  the 
triumph  of  their  menfolk. 

On  the  hilltops  the  ineffective  rebel  riflemen  rose 
up  from  behind  their  stone  wall  to  stare,  until 
suddenly  they,  too,  were  seized  with  a  panic  and 
ran  to  and  fro  like  ants.  Then,  around  the  curve 
below  the  concentrator,  a  tall  man  came  dashing  up 
on  a  pure  white  horse,  and  behind  him,  charging  as 
he  charged,  came  the  swarthy  Yaquis  of  Alvarez, 
their  new  rifles  gleaming  in  the  sun. 

Up  along  the  hillside  and  after  the  fugitives  they 
ran  with  vengeful  eagerness,  racing  one  another  for 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  239 

the  higher  ground  and  the  first  shot  at  the  rebels. 
First  Alvarez  on  his  white  horse  would  be  ahead 
and  then,  as  they  encountered  rocks,  the  Yaquis 
would  surge  to  the  front.  It  was  a  race  and  at  the 
same  time  it  was  a  rout,  for,  at  the  first  glimpse  of 
that  oncoming  body  of  warriors,  the  cowardly  fol 
lowers  of  Bernardo  Bravo  took  to  their  heels  and  fled. 

But  over  the  rocks  no  Chihuahuan,  no  matter 
how  scared,  can  hope  to  outdistance  a  Yaqui,  and 
soon  the  pop,  pop  of  rifles  told  the  fate  of  the  first 
luckless  stragglers.  For  the  Yaquis,  after  a  hundred 
and  sixty  years  of  guerrilla  warfare,  never  waste  a 
shot;  and  as  savage  yells  and  the  crash  of  a  sudden 
volley  drifted  down  from  the  rocky  heights  the  men 
who  had  been  besieged  in  Fortuna  knew  that  death 
was  abroad  in  the  hills. 

Fainter  and  fainter  came  the  shots  as  the  pursuit 
led  on  to  the  north  and,  as  Hooker  strained  his  eyes 
to  follow  a  huge  form  that  intuition  told  him  was 
Amigo,  he  was  wakened  suddenly  from  his  pre 
occupation  by  the  touch  of  some  unseen  hand. 
He  was  in  the  open  with  people  all  about  him — Span 
ish  refugees,  Americans,  triumphant  miners  and 
their  wives — but  that  touch  made  him  forget  the 
battle  above  him  and  instantly  think  of  Gracia. 

He  turned  and  hurried  back  to  the  corral  where 
Copper  Bottom  was  kept,  and  there  he  found  her 
waiting,  with  her  roan  all  saddled,  and  she  challenged 
him  with  her  eyes.  The  sun  gleamed  from  a  pistol 
that  she  held  in  her  hand,  and  again  from  her  golden 
hair,  but  he  saw  only  her  eyes,  so  brave  and  daring, 
and  the  challenge  to  mount  and  ride. 


24o  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

Only  for  a  moment  did  he  stand  before  her  gaze, 
and  then  he  caught  up  his  saddle  and  spoke  sooth 
ingly  to  his  horse.  They  rode  out  of  the  corral 
together,  closing  the  gates  behind  them  and  passing 
down  a  gulch  to  the  rear.  All  the  town  lay  silent 
below  them  as  they  turned  toward  the  western  pass. 

Soldiers,  miners,  and  refugees,  men,  women,  and 
children,  every  soul  in  Fortuna  was  on  the  hill  to 
see  the  last  of  the  battle.  It  had  been  a  crude  affair, 
but  bravely  ended,  and  something  in  the  dramatic 
suddenness  of  this  victory  had  held  all  eyes  to  the 
close.  Bud  and  Gracia  passed  out  of  town  un 
noticed,  and  as  soon  as  they  had  rounded  the  point 
they  spurred  on  till  they  gained  the  pass. 

"I  knew  you  would  come!"  said  Gracia,  smiling 
radiantly  as  they  paused  at  the  fork. 

"Sure!"  answered  Hooker  with  his  good-humored 
smile.  "Count  me  in  on  anything — which  way  does 
this  trail  go;  do  you  know?" 

"It  goes  west  twelve  miles  toward  Arispe," 
replied  Gracia  confidently,  "and  then  it  comes  into 
the  main  road  that  leads  north  to  Nogales  and 
Gadsden." 

"What  is  there  up  here?"  inquired  Bud,  pointing 
at  a  fainter  trail  that  led  off  toward  the  north. 
"This  country  is  new  to  me.  Don't  know,  eh? 
Well,  if  we  followed  that  trail  we'd  run  into  them 
rebels,  anyway,  so  we  might  as  well  go  to  the  west. 
Is  your  saddle  all  right?  We'll  hit  it  up  then — I'd 
like  to  strike  a  road  before  dark." 

They  hurried  on,  following  a  well-marked  trail 
that  alternately  climbed  ridges  and  descended  into 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  241 

arroyos,  until  finally  it  dropped  down  into  a  pre 
cipitous  canon  where  a  swollen  stream  rushed  and 
babbled  and,  while  they  still  watched  expectantly 
for  the  road,  the  evening  quickly  passed. 

First  the  slanting  rays  of  the  sun  struck  fire  from 
high  yellow  crags,  then  the  fire  faded  and  the  sky 
glowed  an  opal-blue;  then,  through  dark  blues  and 
purples  the  heavens  turned  to  black  above  them  and 
all  the  stars  came  out.  Thousands  of  frogs  made  the 
canon  resound  with  their  throaty  songs  and  strange 
animals  crashed  through  the  brush  at  their  approach, 
but  still  Hooker  stayed  in  the  saddle  and  Gracia 
followed  on  behind. 

If  she  had  thought  in  her  dreams  of  an  easier 
journey  she  made  no  comment  now  and,  outside  of 
stopping  to  cinch  up  her  saddle,  Bud  seemed  hardly 
to  know  she  was  there.  The  trail  was  not  going  to 
suit  him — it  edged  off  too  far  to  the  south — and  yet, 
in  the  tropical  darkness,  he  could  not  search  out  new 
ways  to  go. 

At  each  fork  he  paused  to  light  a  match,  and 
whichever  way  the  mule-tracks  went  he  went  also, 
for  pack-mules  would  take  the  main  trail.  For  two 
hours  and  more  they  followed  on  down  the  stream 
and  then  Hooker  stopped  his  horse. 

"You  might  as  well  get  down  and  rest  a  while," 
he  said  quietly.  "This  trail  is  no  good — it's  taking 
us  south.  We'll  let  our  horses  feed  until  the  moon 
comes  up  and  I'll  try  to  work  north  by  landmarks." 

"Oh — are  we  lost?"  gasped  Gracia,  dropping 
stiffly  to  the  ground.  "But  of  course  we  are,"  she 
added.  "I've  been  thinking  so  for  some  time." 


242  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  observed  Hooker  philo 
sophically;  "I  don't  mind  being  lost  as  long  as  I 
know  where  I'm  at.  We'll  ride  back  until  we  get 
out  of  this  dark  canon  and  then  I'll  lay  a  line  due 
north." 

They  sat  for  a  time  in  the  darkness  while  their 
horses  champed  at  the  rich  grass  and  then,  unable 
to  keep  down  her  nerves,  Gracia  declared  for  a  start. 
A  vision  of  angry  pursuers  rose  up  in  her  mind — of 
Manuel  del  Rey  and  his  keen-eyed  rurales,  hot 
upon  their  trail — and  it  would  not  let  her  rest. 

Nor  was  the  vision  entirely  the  result  of  nervous 
imagination,  for  they  had  lost  half  the  advantage 
of  their  start,  as  Hooker  well  knew,  and  if  he  made 
one  more  false  move  he  would  find  himself  called 
on  to  fight.  As  they  rode  back  through  the  black 
canon  he  asked  himself  for  the  hundredth  time  how 
it  had  all  happened — why,  at  a  single  glance  from 
her,  he  had  gone  against  his  better  judgment  and 
plunged  himself  into  this  tangle.  And  then,  finally, 
what  was  he  going  to  do  about  it? 

Alone,  he  would  have  taken  to  the  mountains  with 
a  fine  disregard  for  trails,  turning  into  whichever 
served  his  purpose  best  and  following  the  lay  of  the 
land.  Even  with  her  in  his  care  it  would  be  best  to 
do  that  yet,  for  there  would  be  trailers  on  their 
track  at  sun-up,  and  it  was  either  ride  or  fight. 

Free  at  last  from  the  pent-in  canon,  they  halted 
at  the  forks,  while  Bud  looked  out  the  land  by  moon 
light.  Dim  and  ghostly,  the  square-topped  peaks 
and  buttes  rose  all  about  him,  huge  and  impassable 
except  for  the  winding  trails.  He  turned  up  a 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  243 

valley  between  two  ridges,  spurring  his  horse  into  a 
fast  walk. 

From  one  cow  trail  to  another  he  picked  out  a 
way  to  the  north,  but  the  lay  of  the  ground  threw 
him  to  the  east  and  there  were  no  passes  between  the 
hills.  The  country  was  rocky,  with  long  parallel 
ridges  extending  to  the  northeast,  and  when  he  saw 
where  the  way  was  taking  him  Bud  called  a  halt  till 
dawn. 

By  the  very  formation  he  was  being  gradually 
edged  back  toward  Fortuna,  and  it  would  call  for 
fresh  horses  and  a  rested  Gracia  to  outstrip  their 
pursuers  by  day.  If  the  rurales  traveled  by  land 
marks,  heading  for  the  northern  passes  in  an  effort 
to  outride  and  intercept  him,  they  might  easily  cut 
him  off  at  the  start;  but  if  they  trailed  him — and  he 
devoutly  hoped  they  would — then  they  would  have 
a  tangled  skein  to  follow  and  he  could  lose  them  in 
the  broken  country  to  the  north. 

So  thinking,  he  cut  grass  among  the  rocks,  spreak 
down  their  saddle-blankets,  and  watched  over  the 
browsing  horses  while  Gracia  stretched  out  on  the 
bed.  After  a  day  of  excitement  and  a  night  of  hard 
riding  there  is  no  call  for  a  couch  of  down,  and  as  the 
morning  star  appeared  in  the  east  she  slept  while 
Bud  sat  patiently  by. 

It  was  no  new  task  to  him,  this  watching  and  wait 
ing  for  the  dawn.  For  weeks  at  a  time,  after  a 
hard  day's  work  at  the  branding,  he  had  stood  guard 
half  the  night.  Sleep  was  a  luxury  to  him,  like  water 
to  a  mountain-sheep — and  so  wrere  all  the  other 
useless  things  that  town-bred  people  required. 


244  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

People  like  Gracia,  people  like  Phil — they  were 
different  in  all  their  ways.  To  ride,  to  fight,  to  find 
the  way — there  he  was  a  better  man  than  Phil;  but 
to  speak  to  a  woman,  to  know  her  ways,  and  to  enter 
into  her  life — there  he  was  no  man  at  all. 

He  sighed  now  as  he  saw  the  first  flush  of  dawn 
and  turned  to  where  she  slept,  calm  and  beautiful, 
in  the  solemn  light.  How  to  waken  her,  even  that 
was  a  question,  but  the  time  had  come  to  start. 

Already,  from  Fortuna,  Del  Rey  and  his  man- 
killing  rurales  would  be  on  the  trail.  He  would 
come  like  the  wind,  that  dashing  little  captain, 
and  nothing  but  a  bullet  would  stop  him,  for  his 
honor  was  at  stake.  Nay,  he  had  told  Bud  in  so 
many  words: 

"She  is  mine,  and  no  man  shall  come  between 
us!" 

It  would  be  hard  now  if  the  rurales  should  prove 
too  many  for  him — if  a  bullet  should  check  him  in 
their  flight  and  she  be  left  alone.  But  how  to  wake 
her!  He  tramped  near  as  he  led  up  the  unwilling 
mounts;  then,  as  time  pressed,  he  spoke  to  her,  and 
at  last  he  knelt  at  her  side. 

"Say!"  he  called,  and  when  that  did  not  serve  he 
laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Wake  up!"  he  said,  shaking  her  gently.  "Wake 
up,  it's  almost  day!" 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  went  back  to  the  phrase  of 
the  cow-camp — where  men  rise  before  it  is  light. 
But  Gracia  woke  up  wondering  and  stared  about 
her  strangely,  unable  to  understand. 

"Why — what  is  it?"  she  cried.    Then,  as  he  spoke 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  245 

again  and  backed  away,  she  remembered  him  with  a 
smile. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "is  it  time  to  get  up?  Where  are 
we,  anyway?" 

"About  ten  miles  from  Fortuna,"  answered 
Hooker  soberly.  "Too  close — we  ought  to  be  over 
that  divide." 

He  pointed  ahead  to  where  the  valley  narrowed 
and  passed  between  two  hills,  and  Gracia  sat  up, 
binding  back  her  hair  that  had  fallen  from  its  place. 

"Yes,  yes!"  she  said  resolutely.  "We  must  go 
on — but  why  do  you  look  at  me  so  strangely  ? " 

"Don't  know,"  mumbled  Bud.  "Didn't  know 
I  was.  Say,  let  me  get  them  saddle-blankets,  will 
you?" 

He  went  about  his  work  with  embarrassed  swift 
ness,  slapping  on  saddles  and  bridles,  coiling  up 
ropes,  and  offering  her  his  hand  to  mount.  When 
he  looked  at  her  again  it  was  not  strangely. 

"Hope  you  can  ride,"  he  said.  "We  got  to  get 
over  that  pass  before  anybody  else  makes  it — after 
that  we  can  take  a  rest." 

"As  fast  as  you  please,"  she  answered  steadily. 
"Don't  think  about  me.  But  what  will  happen  if — 
they  get  there  first?" 

She  was  looking  at  him  now  as  he  searched  out  the 
trail  ahead,  but  he  pretended  not  to  hear.  One  man 
in  that  pass  was  as  good  as  a  hundred,  and  there  were 
only  two  things  he  could  do — shoot  his  way  through, 
or  turn  back.  He  believed  she  would  not  want  to 
turn  back. 


XXV 

THOUGH  the  times  had  turned  to  war,  all 
nature  that  morning  was  at  peace,  and 
they  rode  through  a  valley  of  flowers  like 
knight  and  lady  in  a  pageant.  The  rich  grass 
rose  knee-deep  along  the  hillsides,  the  desert  trees 
were  filigreed  with  the  tenderest  green  and  twined 
with  morning-glories,  and  in  open  glades  the  poppies 
and  sand-verbenas  spread  forth  masses  of  blue  and 
gold. 

Already  on  the  mesquit-trees  the  mocking-birds 
were  singing,  and  bright  flashes  of  tropical  color 
showed  where  cardinal  and  yellow-throat  passed. 
The  dew  was  still  untouched  upon  the  grass,  and 
yet  they  hurried  on,  for  some  premonition  whis 
pered  to  them  of  evil,  and  they  thought  only  to  gain 
the  far  pass. 

To  the  west  and  north  rose  the  high  and  impassable 
mountain  which  had  barred  their  way  in  the  night; 
across  the  valley  the  flat-topped  Fortunas  threw 
their  bulwark  against  the  dawn;  and  all  behind 
was  broken  hills  and  gulches,  any  one  of  which  might 
give  up  armed  men.  Far  ahead,  like  a  knife-gash 
between  the  ridges,  lay  the  pass  to  the  northern 
plains,  and  as  their  trail  swung  out  into  the  open  they 
put  spurs  to  their  horses  and  galloped. 

Once  through  that  gap,  the  upper  country  would 

246 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  247 

lie  before  them  and  they  could  pick  and  choose. 
Now  they  must  depend  upon  speed  and  the  chance 
that  their  way  was  not  blocked. 

Somewhere  in  those  hills  to  the  east  Bernardo 
Bravo  and  his  men  were  hidden.  Or  perhaps  they 
were  scattered,  turned  by  their  one  defeat  into 
roving  bandits  or  vengeful  partizans,  laying  waste 
the  Sonoran  ranches  as  they  fought  their  way  back 
to  Chihuahua.  There  were  a  hundred  evil  chances 
that  might  befall  the  fugitives,  and  while  Bud 
scanned  the  country  ahead  Gracia  cast  anxious 
glances  behind. 

"They  are  coming!"  she  cried  at  last,  as  a  mov 
ing  spot  appeared  in  the  rear.  "Oh,  there  they  are!" 

"Good!"  breathed  Hooker,  as  he  rose  in  his 
stirrups  and  looked. 

"Why  good?"  she  demanded  curiously. 

"Trie's  only  three  of  'em,"  answered  Bud.  "I 
was  afraid  they  might  be  in  front,"  he  explained,  as 
she  gazed  at  him  writh  a  puzzled  smile. 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "but  what  will  you  do  if  they 
catch  us?" 

"They  won't  catch  us,"  replied  Hooker  confi 
dently.  "Not  while  I've  got  my  rifle.  Aha!"  he 
exclaimed,  still  looking  back,  "now  we  know  all 
about  it — that  sorrel  is  Manuel  del  Rey's!" 

"And  will  you  kill  him?"  challenged  Gracia, 
rousing  suddenly  at  the  name.  Hooker  pretended 
not  to  hear.  Instead,  he  cocked  his  eye  up  at  the 
eastern  mountain,  whence  from  time  to  time  came 
muffled  rifle-shots,  and  turned  his  horse  to  go. 
There  was  trouble  over  there  to  the  east  some- 


248  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

where — Alvarez  and  his  Yaquis,  still  harrying  the 
retreating  rebels — and  some  of  it  might  come  their 
way. 

"Ah,  how  I  hate  that  man!"  raged  Gracia, 
spurring  her  horse  as  she  scowled  back  at  the 
galloping  Del  Rey  and  his  men  who  were  riding  on 
ward  rapidly. 

"All  right,"  observed  Bud  with  a  quizzical 
smile,  "I'll  have  to  kill  him  for  you  then!" 

She  gazed  at  him  a  moment  with  eyes  that  were 
big  with  questioning,  but  the  expression  on  his 
rugged  face  baffled  her. 

"I  would  not  forget  it,"  she  cried  impulsively. 
"No,  after  all  I  have  suffered,  I  think  I  could  love 
the  man  who  would  meet  him  face  to  face!  But 
why  do  you — ah!"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  tragic 
bitterness.  "You  smile!  You  have  no  thought  for 
me — you  care  nothing  that  I  am  afraid  of  him!  Ah, 
Diosy  for  a  man  who  is  brave — to  rid  me  of  this 
devil!" 

"Never  mind!"  returned  Bud,  his  voice  thick 
with  rising  anger.  "If  I  kill  him  it  won't  be  for 
you!" 

He  jumped  Copper  Bottom  ahead  to  avoid  her, 
for  in  that  moment  she  had  touched  his  pride.  Yes, 
she  had  done  more  than  that — she  had  destroyed 
a  dream  he  had,  a  dream  of  a  beautiful  woman, 
always  gentle,  always  noble,  whom  he  had  sworn  to 
protect  with  his  life.  Did  she  think  he  was  a  pelado 
Mexican,  a  hot-country  lover,  to  be  inflamed  by  a 
glance  and  a  smile?  Then  Phil  could  have  her! 

"Ah,    Bud!"   she   appealed,   spurring   up   beside 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  249 

him,  "you  did  not  understand!  I  know  you  are 
brave — and  if  he  comes" — she  struck  her  pistol 
fiercely— "I  will  kill  him  myself!" 

"Never  mind,"  answered  Bud  in  a  kinder  voice. 
"I'll  take  care  of  you.  Jest  keep  your  horse  in  the 
trail,"  he  added,  as  she  rode  on  through  the  brush, 
"and  I'll  take  care  of  Del  Rey." 

He  beckoned  her  back  with  a  jerk  of  the  head 
and  resumed  his  place  in  the  lead.  Here  was  no 
place  to  talk  about  men  and  motives.  The  moun 
tain  above  was  swarming  with  rebels,  there  were 
rurales  spurring  behind — yes,  even  now,  far  up  on 
the  eastern  hillside,  he  could  see  armed  men — and 
now  one  was  running  to  intercept  them! 

Bud  reached  for  his  rifle,  jacked  up  a  cartridge, 
and  sat  crosswise  in  his  saddle.  He  rode  warily, 
watching  the  distant  runner,  until  suddenly  he 
pulled  in  his  horse  and  threw  up  a  welcoming  hand. 
The  man  was  Amigo — no  other  could  come  down  a 
hillside  so  swiftly — and  he  was  signaling  him  to 
wait. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  asked  Gracia,  as  she  reined 
in  at  his  side.  "  Do  you  know  him  ? " 

"Sure  do!"  responded  Hooker  jovially.  "He's 
the  best  friend  I  got  in  Mexico! 

" Kai,  Amigo!"  he  hailed,  as  the  Yaqui  came 
quartering  down  the  hill,  and,  apparently  oblivious 
of  the  oncoming  pursuers,  he  rode  out  of  the  trail  to 
meet  him.  They  struck  hands  and  Amigo  flashed 
his  familiar  smile,  glancing  shyly  over  the  horse's 
back  at  the  daughter  of  the  Aragons. 

"I  knew  horse,"  he  explained,  with  a  gentle  caress 


250  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

for  Copper  Bottom.  "My  people — up  there — kill 
Mexicans!  Where  you  go?" 

"North — to  the  line,"  answered  Bud,  pointing 
up  the  pass. 

" '  Muy  malo!"  frowned  the  Yaqui,  glancing  once 
more  at  the  woman  behind.  " Muchos  revoltosos!" 

"Where?"  asked  Bud. 

"Everywhere!"  replied  Amigo  with  a  compre 
hensive  wave  of  the  hand.  "But  no  matter,"  he 
added  simply.  "I  will  go  with  you.  Who  are  these 
horsemen  behind?" 

"  Rurales!"  responded  Hooker,  and  the  Yaqui's 
black  eyes  dilated. 

"Yes,"  nodded  Bud  as  he  read  the  swift  question 
in  their  glance.  "He  is  there,  too — Del  Rey!" 

"  Que  bueno!"  exclaimed  the  Indian,  fixing  his 
eagle  glance  upon  the  riders.  He  showed  his  white 
teeth  in  a  smile.  In  an  instant  he  saw  his  oppor 
tunity,  he  saw  his  enemy  riding  into  a  trap,  and 
turned  his  face  to  the  pass. 

"Come!"  he  said,  laying  hold  of  a  laUgo  strap, 
and  as  Hooker  loped  on  up  the  steady  incline  he  ran 
along  at  his  stirrup.  In  his  right  hand  he  still 
carried  the  heavy  Mauser,  but  his  sandaled  feet  bore 
him  forward  with  tireless  strides,  and  only  the 
heaving  of  his  mighty  chest  told  the  story  of  the  pace. 

"Let  me  take  your  gun,"  suggested  Hooker,  as 
they  set  off  on  their  race,  but  Amigo  in  his  warrior's 
pride  only  shook  his  head  and  motioned  him  on  and 
on.  So  at  last  they  gained  the  rugged  summit, 
where  the  granite  ribs  of  the  mountain  crop  up 
through  the  sands  of  the  wash  and  the  valley  slopes 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  251 

away  to  the  north.  To  the  south  was  Del  Rey,  still 
riding  after  them,  but  Amigo  beckoned  Bud  beyond 
the  reef  and  looked  out  to  the  north. 

"Rtvotiosos!"  he  exclaimed,  pointing  a  sun- 
blackened  hand  at  a  distant  ridge.  "  Revoltosos!" 
he  said  again,  waving  his  hand  to  the  east.  "Here," 
waving  toward  the  west,  "no!" 

"Do  you  know  that  country?"  inquired  Hooker, 
nodding  at  the  great  plain  with  its  chains  of  parallel 
Sierras,  but  the  Indian  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said;  "but  the  best  way  is  straight  for 
that  pass." 

He  pointed  at  a  distant  wedge  cut  down  between 
the  blue  of  two  ridges,  and  scanned  the  eastern 
hills  intently. 

"Men!"  he  cried,  suddenly  indicating  the  sky 
line  of  the  topmost  ridge.  "I  think  they  are  re- 
voltosos,"  he  added  gravely.  "They  will  soon  cross 
your  trail." 

"No  difference,"  answered  Bud  with  a  smile. 
"I  am  not  afraid — not  with  you  here,  Amigo." 

"No,  but  the  woman!"  suggested  Amigo,  who 
read  no  jest  in  his  words.  "It  is  better  that  you 
should  ride  on — and  leave  me  here." 

He  smiled  encouragingly,  but  a  wild  light  was 
creeping  into  his  eyes  and  Hooker  knew  what  he 
meant.  He  desired  to  be  left  alone,  to  deal  with 
Del  Rey  after  the  sure  manner  of  the  Yaquis.  And 
yet,  why  not?  Hooker  gazed  thoughtfully  at  the 
oncoming  rurales  and  walked  swiftly  back  to 
Gracia. 
*  -  "This  Indian  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  he  said,  "  and 


352  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

I  can  trust  him.  He  says  it  will  be  better  for  us  to 
ride  on — and  he  will  take  care  of  the  rurales" 

"Take  care?"  questioned  Gracia,  turning  pale  at  a 
peculiar  matter-of-fact  tone  in  his  voice. 

"Sure,"  said  Hooker;  "he  says  there  are  revol- 
tosos  ahead.  It  will  be  better  for  you,  he  says,  to 
ride  on." 

" Madre  de  Dios!"  breathed  Gracia,  clutching  at 
her  saddle;  and  then  she  nodded  her  head  weakly. 

"You  better  get  down  for  a  minute,"  suggested 
Hooker,  helping  her  quickly  to  the  ground.  "Here, 
drink  some  water — you're  kinder  faint.  I'll  be 
right  back — jest  want  to  say  good-by." 

He  strode  over  to  where  Amigo  had  posted 
himself  behind  a  rock  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

" AdioSy  Amigo!"  he  said,  but  the  Yaqui  only 
glanced  at  him  strangely. 

"Anything  in  my  camp,  you  are  welcome  to  it," 
added  Hooker,  but  Amigo  did  not  respond.  His 
black  eyes,  far-seeing  as  a  hawk's,  were  fixed  intently 
before  him,  where  Del  Rey  came  galloping  in  the 
lead. 

"You  go  now!"  he  said,  speaking  with  an  effort, 
and  Hooker  understood.  There  was  no  love,  no 
hate,  left  in  that  mighty  carcass — he  was  all  warrior, 
all  Yaqui,  and  he  wanted  Del  Rey  to  himself. 

"We'll  be  going,"  Hooker  said  to  Gracia,  return 
ing  swiftly,  and  his  subdued  tones  made  her  start. 
She  felt,  as  one  feels  at  a  funeral,  the  hovering  wings 
of  death,  yet  she  vaulted  into  her  saddle  and  left  her 
thoughts  unsaid. 

They  rode  on  down  the  valley,  spurring  yet  hold- 


With  a  roar  that  made  them  jump  the  heavy  Mauser  spoke  out 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  253 

ing  back,  and  then  with  a  roar  that  made  them  jump 
the  heavy  Mauser  spoke  out — one  shot!  And  no 
more.  There  was  a  hush,  a  long  wait,  and  Amigo 
rose  slowly  from  behind  his  rock. 

"God!"  exclaimed  Hooker,  as  he  caught  the  pose, 
and  his  voice  sounded  a  requiem  for  Manuel  del  Rey. 

Then,  as  Gracia  crossed  herself  and  fell  to  sobbing, 
he  leaned  forward  in  his  saddle  and  they  galloped 
away. 


XXVI 

THOUGH  men  may  make  a  jest  of  it  in  books, 
it  is  a  solemn  thing  to  kill  a  man,  even  to  be 
near  when  one  is  killed.  If  Gracia  had 
slain  Del  Rey  herself  in  a  passion  her  hot  blood 
might  have  buoyed  her  up,  but  now  her  whole  nature 
was  convulsed  with  the  horror  of  it  and  she  wilted 
like  a  flower. 

An  hour  before  she  had  burned  with  hatred  of 
him,  she  had  wished  him  dead  and  sought  the  man 
who  would  kill  him.  Now  that  his  life  had  been 
snipped  off  between  two  heart-beats  she  remem 
bered  him  with  pity  and  muttered  a  prayer  for  his 
soul.  For  Hooker,  for  De  Lancey,  she  had  no 
thought,  but  only  for  the  dashing  young  captain 
who  had  followed  her  to  his  death. 

Of  this  Bud  had  no  knowledge.  He  realized  only 
that  she  was  growing  weaker,  and  that  he  must  call 
a  halt,  and  at  last,  when  the  walls  of  their  pass  had 
widened  and  they  rode  out  into  the  open  plain,  he 
turned  aside  from  the  trail  and  drew  rein  by  a  clump 
of  mesquit. 

"Here,  let  me  take  you,"  he  said,  as  she  swayed 
uncertainly  in  the  saddle.  She  slid  down  into  his 
arms  and  he  laid  her  gently  in  the  shade. 

"Poor  girl,"  he  muttered,  "it's  been  too  much  for 

254 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  255 

you.     I'll  get  some  water  and  pretty  soon  you  can 


eat/' 


He  unslung  the  canteen  from  his  saddle-flap,  gave 
her  a  drink,  and  left  her  to  herself,  glancing  swiftly 
along  the  horizon  as  he  tied  out  their  mounts  to 
graze.  But  for  her  faintness  he  would  have  pushed 
on  farther,  for  he  had  seen  men  off  to  the  east;  but 
hunger  and  excitement  had  told  upon  her  even  more 
than  the  day-and-night  ride. 

For  a  woman,  and  sitting  a  side-saddle,  she  had 
done  better  than  he  had  hoped;  and  yet — well,  it 
was  a  long  way  to  the  border  and  he  doubted  if  she 
could  make  it.  She  lay  still  in  the  shade  of  the 
mesquit,  just  as  he  had  placed  her,  and  when  he 
brought  the  sack  of  food  she  did  not  raise  her  head. 

"Better  eat  something/'  he  suggested,  spreading 
out  some  bread  and  dried  beef.  "Here's  some 
oranges  I  got  from  Don  Juan — I'll  jest  put  them  over 
here  for  you." 

Gracia  shuddered,  sighing  wearily.  Then,  as 
if  his  words  had  hurt  her,  she  covered  her  face  and 
wept. 

"What  did  >W  tell  that  man?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"W'y — what  man?"  inquired  Hooker,  astonished. 
"Ain't  you  going  to  eat?" 

"No!"  she  cried,  gazing  out  at  him  through  her 
tears,  "not  until  I  know  what  you  said.  Did  you 
tell  that  Indian  to — to  kill  him?" 

She  broke  down  suddenly  in  a  fit  of  sobbing,  and 
Hooper  wiped  his  brow. 

"W'y,  no!"  he  protested.  "Sure  not!  What 
made  you  think  that?" 


256  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Why — you  rode  over  and  spoke  to  him — and  he 
looked  at  me — and  then — he — killed  him!" 

She  gave  way  to  a  paroxysm  of  grief  at  this,  and 
Bud  looked  around  him,  wondering.  That  she  was 
weak  and  hungry  he  knew,  but  what  was  this  she 
was  saying? 

"I  reckon  I  don't  understand  what  you're  driving 
at,"  he  said  at  last.  "Wish  you'd  eat  something — 
you'll  feel  better." 

"No,  I  won't  eat!"  she  declared,  sitting  up  and 
frowning.  "Mr.  Hooker,"  she  went  on  very  miser 
ably,  "what  did  you  mean  this  morning  when  you — 
laughed?  I  said  I  hated  poor  Manuel — and  you 
said — well,  what  you  did — and  then  you  laughed! 
Did  you  think — oh,  you  couldn't  have — that  I 
really  wanted  him  killed  ? " 

"W'y,  sure  not!"  cried  Hooker  heartily.  "I 
knowed  you  was  fooling!  Didn't  I  laugh  at  you? 
Say,  what  kind  of  a  feller  do  you  think  I  am,  any 
way?  D'ye  think  I'd  get  an  Indian  to  do  my 
killing?" 

"Oh,  then  didn't  you?"  she  cried,  suddenly 
brightening  up.  "You  know,  you  talk  so  rough 
sometimes — and  I  never  do  know  what  you  mean! 
You  said  you  guessed  you'd  have  to  kill  him  for  me, 
you  know,  and — oh,  it  was  too  awful!  I  must  be 
getting  foolish,  I'm  so  tired,  but — what  did  you  tell 
that  Indian?" 

Bud  glanced  at  her  sharply  for  a  moment  and 
then  decided  to  humor  her.  Perhaps,  if  he  could 
get  her  quieted,  she  would  stop  talking  and  begin  to 
eat. 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  257 

"He  asked  me  who  was  after  us,"  he  said,  "and  I 
told  him  it  was  Del  Rey." 

"Yes,  and  what  did  he  say  then?" 

"He  didn't  say  nothing — jest  lined  out  for  the 
pass." 

"And  didn't  you  say  you  wanted — him — killed?" 

"No!"  burst  out  Bud,  half  angrily.  "Haven't 
I  told  you  once?  I  did  not!  That  Indian  had 
reasons  of  his  now,  believe  me — he's  got  a  scar  along 
his  ribs  where  Del  Rey  shot  him  with  a  six-shooter! 
And,  furthermore,"  he  added,  as  her  face  cleared 
at  this  explanation  of  the  mystery,  "you'd  better 
try  to  take  me  at  my  word  for  the  rest  of  this  trip! 
Looks  to  me  like  you've  been  associating  with  these 
Mexicans  too  much!" 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded  curtly. 

"I  mean  this,"  answered  Hooker,  "being  as  we're 
on  the  subject  again.  Ever  since  I've  knowed  you 
you've  been  talking  about  brave  men  and  all  that; 
and  more'n  once  you've  hinted  that  I  wasn't  brave 
because  I  wouldn't  fight. 

"I'd  jest  like  to  tell  you,  to  put  your  mind  at  rest, 
that  my  father  was  a  sergeant  in  the  Texas  Rangers 
and  no  hundred  Mexicans  was  ever  able  to  make 
him  crawl.  He  served  for  ten  years  on  the  Texas 
border  and  never  turned  his  back  to  no  man — let 
alone  a  Mex.  I  was  brought  up  by  him  to  be  peace 
able  and  quiet,  but  don't  you  never  think,  because  I 
run  away  from  Manuel  del  Rey,  that  I  was  afraid 
to  face  him." 

He  paused  and  regarded  her  intently,  and  her  eyes 
fell  before  his. 


2£8  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"You  must  excuse  me,"  she  said,  looking  wist 
fully  away,  "I  did  not — I  did  not  understand.  And 
so  the  poor  Yaqui  was  only  avenging  an  injury?" 
she  went  on,  reaching  our  one  slender  hand  toward 
the  food.  "Ah,  I  can  understand  it  now — he  looked 
so  savage  and  fierce.  But" — she  paused  again,  set 
back  by  a  sudden  thought — "didn't  you  know  he 
would  kill  him?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  Hooker  quietly,  "I 
did!" 

"Then — then  why  didn't  you — ' 

"That  was  between  them  two,"  he  replied 
doggedly.  "Del  Rey  shot  him  once  when  he  was 
wounded  and  left  him  for  dead.  He  must  have 
killed  some  of  his  people,  too;  his  wife  fmebbe,  for 
all  I  know.  He  never  would  talk  about  it,  but  he 
come  back  to  get  his  revenge.  I  don't  shoot  no  man 
from  cover  myself,  but  that  ain't  it —  it  was  between 
them  two." 

"And  you?"  she  suggested.  "If  you  had  fought 
Del  Rey?" 

"I  would  have  met  him  in  the  open,"  said  Hooker. 

"And  yet—" 

"I  didn't  want  to,"  he  ended  bluntly.  "Didn't 
want  to  fight  him  and  didn't  want  to  kill  him.  Had 
no  call  to.  And  then — well,  there  was  you." 

"Ah!"  she  breathed,  and  a  flush  mounted  her 
pale  cheeks.  She  smiled  as  she  reached  out  once 
more  for  the  food  and  Hooker  resolved  to  do  his 
best  at  gallantry,  it  seemed  to  make  her  so  happy. 

"So  you  were  thinking  of  me,"  she  challenged 
sweetly,  "all  the  while?  I  thought  perhaps  I  was  a 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  259 

nuisance  and  in  the  way.  I  thought  perhaps  you 
did  not  like  me  because — well,  because  I'm  a  Mex, 
as  you  say." 

"No,  ma'am/*  denied  Hooker,  gazing  upon  her 
admiringly.  "Nothing  like  that!  When  I  say 
Mex  I  mean  these  low,  pelado  Mexicans — Don  Juan 
tells  me  you're  pure  Spanish." 

"With  perhaps  a  little  Yaqui,"  she  suggested 
slyly. 

"Well,  mebbe  he  did  say  that,  too,"  confessed 
Bud.  "But  it's  jest  as  good  as  Spanish — they  say 
all  the  big  men  in  Sonora  have  got  some  Yaqui  blood 
— Morral,  that  was  vice-president;  the  Tornes 
brothers,  governors— 

"And  Aragon!"  she  added  playfully,  but  at  a  look 
in  his  eyes  she  stopped.  Bud  could  not  look 
pleasant  and  think  of  Aragon. 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  rattled  on.  "I  know!  You  like 
the  Yaquis  better  than  the  Spanish — I  saw  you 
shaking  hands  with  that  Indian.  And  what  was  it 
you  called  him — Amigo?" 

"That's  right,"  smiled  Hooker;  "him  and  me  have 
been  friends  for  months  now  out  at  the  mine.  I'd 
do  anything  for  that  feller." 

"Oh,  now  you  make  me  jealous,"  she  pouted. 
"If  I  were  only  a  Yaqui — and  big  and  black — " 

"Never  mind,"  defended  Bud.  "He  was  a  true 
friend,  all  right,  and  true  friends,  believe  me,  are 
scarce." 

There  was  a  shade  of  bitterness  in  his  voice  that 
did  not  escape  her,  and  she  was  careful  not  to  allude 
to  Phil.  His  name,  like  the  name  of  her  father, 


260  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

always  drove  this  shy  man  to  silence,  and  she  wanted 
to  make  him  talk. 

"Then  you  ought  to  be  friends  with  me"  she 
chided,  after  a  silence.  "I  have  always  wanted  to 
be  your  friend — why  will  you  never  allow  it?  No, 
but  really!  Haven't  I  always  shown  it?  I  remem 
ber  now  the  first  time  that  I  saw  you — I  was  looking 
through  my  hole  among  the  passion-flowers  and 
you  saw  me  with  your  keen  eyes.  Phil  did  not — 
but  he  was  there.  And  you  just  looked  at  me  once — 
and  looked  away.  Why  did  you  never  respond  when 
I  came  there  to  look  for  you?  You  would  just 
ride  by  and  look  at  me  once,  and  even  Phil  never 
knew." 

;  "No,"  agreed  Bud,  smiling  quietly.  "He  was 
crazy  to  see  you,  but  he  rode  right  by,  looking 
at  the  windows  and  such." 

"The  first  time  I  met  him,"  mused  Gracia,  "I 
asked  about  you.  Did  he  ever  tell  you?" 

Bud  hung  his  head  and  grinned  sheepishly.  It 
was  not  difficult  to  make  out  a  case  against  him. 

"Is  it  something  I  have  done?"  she  asked  at  last. 
"Is  that  why  you  never  liked  me?  Now,  Mr. 
Hooker,  please  speak  to  me!  And  why  do  you 
always  sit  so  far  away — are  you  afraid  of  m6?  But 
look" — she  moved  closer  to  him — "here  we  are 
alone,  and  I  am  not  afraid  of  you!" 

"Of  course  not,"  answered  Bud,  looking  across 
at  her  boldly.  "Why  should  you  be — you  ain't 
afraid  of  nothing!" 

"Is  that  a  compliment?"  she  demanded  eagerly. 
"Oh,  then  I'm  so  happy — it's  the  first  you  ever  paid 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  261 

me!  But  have  I  been  brave/'  she  beamed,  "so  far? 
Have  I  been  brave,  like  a  man?" 

"Sure  have!"  remarked  Hooker  impersonally, 
"but  we  ain't  there  yet.  Only  thing  I  don't  like 
about  you  is  you  don't  eat  enough.  Say,  don't 
pick  up  them  crumbs — let  me  pare  off  some  more  of 
this  jerked  beef  for  you.  Can't  nobody  be  brave 
when  they're  hungry,  you  know,  and  I  want  to 
bring  you  in  safe." 

"Why?"  she  inquired,  as  she  accepted  the  hand 
ful  of  meat.  "Is  it  on  Phil's  account?"  she  ven 
tured,  as  he  sat  gazing  stoically  at  the  horses. 
"You  were  such  friends,  weren't  you?"  she  went  on 
innocently.  "Oh,  that  is  why  I  admire  the  Ameri 
cans  so  much — they  are  so  true  to  each  other!" 

"Yes,"  observed  Hooker,  rolling  his  eyes  on  her, 
"we're  fine  that  way!" 

"Well,  I  mean  it!"  she  insisted,  as  she  read  the 
irony  in  his  glance. 

"Sure!  So  do  I  !"  answered  Hooker,  and  Gracia 
continued  her  meal  in  silence. 

"My!"  she  said  at  last;  "this  meat  is  good! 
Tell  me,  how  did  you  happen  to  have  it  on  your 
saddle?  We  left  so  suddenly,  you  know!" 

She  gazed  up  at  him  demurely,  curious  to  see  how 
he  would  evade  this  evidence  that  he  had  prepared 
in  advance  for  their  ride.  But  once  more,  as  he  had 
always  done,  Hooker  eluded  the  cunningly  laid  snare. 

"I  was  figuring  on  pulling  out  myself,"  he  replied 
ingenuously. 

"What?  And  not  take  me?"  she  cried.  "Oh, 
I  thought — but  dear  me,  what  is  the  use?" 


26i  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

She  sighed  and  drooped  her  head  wearily. 

"I  am  so  tired!"  she  murmured  despondently. 
"Shall  we  be  going  on  soon?" 

"Not  unless  somebody  jumps  us,"  returned  Bud. 
"Here,  let  me  make  you  a  bed  in  the  shade.  There 
now" — as  he  spread  out  the  saddle-blankets  tempt 
ingly— "you  lay  down  and  get  some  sleep  and  I'll 
kinder  keep  a  watch." 

"Ah,  you  are  so  kind!"  she  breathed,  as  she  sank 
down  on  the  bed.  "Don't  you  know,"  she  added, 
looking  up  at  him  with  sleepy  eyes  that  half  con 
cealed  a  smile,  "I  believe  you  like  me,  after  all." 

"Sure,"  confessed  Bud,  returning  her  smile  as 
honestly;  "don't  you  worry  none  about  me — I  like 
you  fine." 

He  slipped  away  at  this,  grinning  to  himself,  and 
sat  down  to  watch  the  plain.  All  about  him  lay 
the  waving  grass  land,  tracked  up  by  the  hoofs 
of  cattle  that  had  vanished  in  the  track  of  war.  In 
the  distance  he  could  see  the  line  of  a  fence  and  the 
ruins  of  a  house.  The  trail  which  he  had  followed 
led  on  and  on  to  the  north.  But  all  the  landscape 
was  vacant,  except  for  his  grazing  horses.  Above 
the  mountains  the  midday  thunder-caps  were  begin 
ning  to  form;  the  air  was  very  soft  and  warm,  and— 
He  woke  up  suddenly  to  find  his  head  on  his  knees. 

"Ump-um-m,"  he  muttered,  rising  up  and  shak 
ing  himself  resolutely,  "this  won't  do — that  sun 
is  making  me  sleepy." 

He  paced  back  and  forth,  smoking  fiercely  at 
brown-paper  cigarettes,  and  still  the  sleep  came 
bad-  The  thunder-clouds  over  the  mountains 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL       .         263 

rose  higher  and  turned  to  black;  they  let  down  skirts 
and  fringes  and  sudden  stabs  of  lightning,  while 
the  wind  sucked  in  from  the  south.  And  then, 
with  a  slash  of  rain,  the  shower  was  upon  them. 

At  the  first  big  drops  Gracia  stirred  uneasily  in 
her  sleep.  She  started  up  as  the  storm  burst  over 
them;  then,  as  Bud  picked  up  the  saddle-blankets 
and  spread  them  over  her,  she  drew  him  down 
beside  her  and  they  sat  out  the  storm  together. 
But  it  was  more  to  them  than  a  sharing  of  cover, 
a  patient  enduring  of  the  elements,  and  the  sweep 
of  wind  and  rain.  When  they  rose  up  there  was  a 
bond  between  them  and  they  thrust  and  parried  no 
more. 

They  were  friends,  there  in  the  rush  of  falling 
water  and  the  crash  of  lightning  overhead.  When 
the  storm  was  over  and  the  sun  came  out  they  smiled 
at  each  other  contentedly  without  fear  of  what  such 
smiles  may  mean. 


XXVII 

AS    the    sun,    after  a   passing    storm,    comes 
forth   all   the  more  gloriously,   so  the  joy 
of  their  new-found  friendship  changed  the 
world    for    Bud    and    Gracia.     The    rainbow    that 
glowed    against    the    retreating   clouds    held    forth 
more  than  a  promise  of  sunshine  for  them,  and  they 
conversed  only  of  pleasant  things  as  they  rode  on  up 
the  trail. 

Twenty  miles  ahead  lay  the  northern  pass,  and 
from  there  it  was  ten  more  to  Gadsden,  but  they 
spoke  neither  of  the  pass  nor  of  Gadsden  nor  of 
who  would  be  awaiting  them  there.  Their  talk  was 
like  that  of  children,  inconsequential  and  happy. 
They  told  of  the  times  when  they  had  seen  each 
other,  and  what  they  had  thought;  of  the  days  of 
their  childhood,  before  they  had  met  at  Fortuna; 
of  hopes  and  fears  and  thwarted  ambitions  and  all 
the  young  dreams  of  life. 

Bud  told  of  his  battle-scarred  father  and  their 
ranch  in  Arizona;  of  his  mother  and  horse-breaking 
brothers,  and  his  wanderings  through  the  West; 
Gracia  of  her  mother,  with  nothing  of  her  father, 
and  how  she  had  flirted  in  order  to  be  sent  to  school 
where  she  could  gaze  upon  the  upstanding  Americans. 
Only  Bud  thought  of  the  trail  and  scanned  the 

264 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  265 

horizon  for  rebels,  but  he  seemed  more  to  seek  her 
eyes  than  to  watch  for  enemies  and  death. 

They  rode  on  until  the  sun  sank  low  and  strange 
tracks  struck  their  trail  from  the  east.  Bud  ob 
served  that  the  horses  were  shod,  and  more  tracks 
of  mounted  men  came  in  beyond.  He  turned 
sharply  toward  the  west  and  followed  a  rocky  ledge 
to  the  hills,  without  leaving  a  hoof-print  to  mark 
the  way  of  their  retreat. 

By  the  signs  the  land  ahead  was  full  of  bandits 
and  ladrones,  men  to  whom  human  life  was  nothing 
and  a  woman  no  more  sacred  than  a  brute.  At  the 
pass  all  trails  converged,  from  the  north  and  from  the 
south.  Not  by  any  chance  could  a  man  pass  over 
it  in  the  daytime  without  meeting  some  one  on  the 
way,  and  if  the  base  revoltosos  once  set  eyes  upon 
Gracia  it  would  take  more  than  a  nod  to  restrain 
them. 

So,  in  a  sheltered  ravine,  they  sought  cover  until 
it  was  dark,  and  while  Gracia  slept,  the  heavy- 
headed  Bud  watched  the  plain  from  the  heights 
above. 

When  she  awoke  and  found  him  nodding  Gracia 
insisted  upon  taking  his  place.  Now  that  she  had 
been  refreshed  her  dark  eyes  were  bright  and 
sparkling,  but  Bud  could  hardly  see.  The  long 
watching  by  night  and  by  day  had  left  his  eyes 
bloodshot  and  swollen,  with  lids  that  drooped  in 
spite  of  him.  If  he  did  not  sleep  now  he  might 
doze  in  the  saddle  later,  or  ride  blindly  into  some 
rebel  camp;  so  he  made  her  promise  to  call  him  and 
lay  down  to  rest  until  dark. 


266  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

The  stars  were  all  out  when  he  awoke,  startled 
by  her  hand  on  his  hair,  but  she  reassured  him  with 
a  word  and  led  him  up  the  hill  to  their  lookout. 
It  was  then  that  he  understood  her  silence.  In 
the  brief  hours  during  which  he  had  slept  the 
deserted  country  seemed  suddenly  to  have  come  to 
life. 

By  daylight  there  had  been  nothing — nothing 
but  dim  figures  in  the  distance  and  the  tracks  of 
horses  and  mules — to  suggest  the  presence  of  men. 
But  now  as  the  velvet  night  settled  down  upon  the 
land  it  brought  out  the  glimmering  specks  of  a 
hundred  camp-fires  to  the  east  and  to  the  north. 
But  the  fires  to  which  Gracia  pointed  were  set 
fairly  in  their  trail,  and  they  barred  the  way  to 
Gadsden. 

"Look!"  she  said.  "I  did  not  want  to  wake  you, 
but  the  fires  have  sprung  up  everywhere.  These 
last  ones  are  right  in  the  pass." 

"When  did  you  see  them?"  asked  Hooker,  his 
head  still  heavy  with  sleep.  "Have  they  been  there 
long?" 

"No;  only  a  few  minutes,"  she  answered.  "At 
sundown  I  saw  those  over  to  the  east — they  are 
along  the  base  of  that  big  black  mountain — but  these 
flashed  up  just  now;  and  see,  there  are  more,  and 
more!" 

"Some  outfit  coming  in  from  the  north,"  said 
Bud.  "They've  crossed  over  the  pass  and  camped 
at  the  first  water  this  side." 

"Who  do  you  think  they  are?"  asked  Gracia  in  an 
awed  voice.  "  Insurrectos?  " 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  267 

"Like  as  not,'*  muttered  Bud,  gazing  from  en 
campment  to  encampment.  "But  whoever  they 
are,"  he  added,  "they're  no  friends  of  ours.  We've 
got  to  go  around  them." 

"And  if  we  can't?"  suggested  Gracia. 

"I  reckon  we'll  have  to  go  through,  then," 
answered  Hooker  grimly.  "We  don't  want  to  get 
caught  here  in  the  morning." 

"Ride  right  through  their  camp?"  gasped  Gracia. 

"Let  the  sentries  get  to  sleep,"  he  went  on,  half 
to  himself.  "Then,  just  before  the  moon  comes 
up,  we'll  try  to  edge  around  them,  and  if  it  comes  to 
a  showdown,  we'll  ride  for  it!  Are  you  game?" 

He  turned  to  read  the  answer,  and  she  drew  her 
self  up  proudly. 

"Try  me!"  she  challenged,  drawing  nearer  to 
him  in  the  darkness.  And  so  they  stood,  side  by 
side,  while  their  hands  clasped  in  promise.  Then, 
as  the  night  grew  darker  and  no  new  fires  appeared, 
Hooker  saddled  up  the  well-fed  horses  and  they 
picked  their  way  down  to  the  trail. 

The  first  fires  were  far  ahead,  but  they  proceeded 
at  a  walk,  their  horses'  feet  falling  silently  upon  the 
sodden  ground.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  and  they 
halted  often  to  listen,  for  others,  too,  might  be 
abroad.  The  distant  fires  were  dying  now,  except 
a  few,  where  men  rose  up  to  feed  them. 

The  braying  of  burros  came  in  from  the  flats  to 
the  right  and  as  the  fugitives  drew  near  the  first 
encampment  they  could  hear  the  voices  of  the  night 
guards  as  they  rode  about  the  horse  herd.  Then, 
as  they  waited  impatiently,  the  watch-fires  died 


268  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

down,  the  guards  no  longer  sang  their  high  falsetto, 
and  even  the  burros  were  still. 

It  was  approaching  the  hour  of  midnight,  and  as 
their  horses  twitched  restively  at  the  bits  they  gave 
them  the  rein  and  rode  ahead  at  a  venture. 

At  their  left  the  last  embers  of  the  fires  revealed 
the  sleeping  forms  of  men;  to  their  right,  some 
where  in  the  darkness,  were  the  night  herd  and  the 
herders.  They  lay  low  on  their  horses'  necks,  not 
to  cast  a  silhouette  against  the  sky,  and  let  Copper 
Bottom  pick  the  trail. 

With  ears  that  pricked  and  swiveled,  and  delicate 
nostrils  snuffing  the  Mexican  taint,  he  plodded 
along  through  the  greasewood,  divining  by  some 
instinct  his  master's  need  of  care.  The  camp  was 
almost  behind  them,  and  Bud  had  straightened  up 
in  the  saddle,  when  suddenly  the  watchful  Copper 
Bottom  jumped  and  a  man  rose  up  from  the  ground. 

"Who  goes  there?"  he  mumbled,  swaying  sleepily 
above  his  gun,  and  Hooker  reined  his  horse  away 
before  he  gave  him  an  answer. 

"None  of  your  business,"  he  growled  impatiently. 
"I  am  going  to  the  pass."  And  as  the  sentry 
stared  stupidly  after  him  he  rode  on  through  the 
bushes,  neither  hurrying  nor  halting  until  he  gained 
the  trail. 

"Good  luck!"  he  observed  to  Gracia,  when  the 
camp  was  far  behind.  "He  took  me  for  an  officer 
and  never  saw  you  at  all." 

"No,  I  flattened  myself  on  my  pony,"  answered 
Gracia  with  a  laugh.  "He  thought  you  were 
leading  a  packhorse." 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  269 

"Good,"  chuckled  Hooker;  "you  did  fine!  Now 
don't  say  another  word — because  they'll  notice  a 
woman's  voice — and  if  we  don't  run  into  some  more 
of  them  we'll  soon  be  climbing  the  pass." 

The  waning  moon  came  out  as  they  left  the  wide 
valley  behind  them,  and  then  it  disappeared  again 
as  they  rode  into  the  gloomy  shadows  of  the  canon. 
For  an  hour  or  two  they  plodded  slowly  upward, 
passing  through  narrow  defiles  and  into  moonlit 
spaces,  and  still  they  did  not  mount  the  summit. 

In  the  east  the  dawn  began  to  break  and  they 
spurred  on  in  almost  a  panic.  The  Mexican  pai- 
sanos  count  themselves  late  if  they  do  not  take  the 
trail  at  sun-up — what  if  they  should  meet  some 
straggling  party  before  they  reached  the  pass? 

Bud  jumped  Copper  Bottom  up  a  series  of  cat 
steps;  Gracia's  roan  came  scrambling  behind;  and 
then,  just  as  the  boxed  walls  ended  and  they  gained 
a  level  spot,  they  suddenly  found  themselves  in  the 
midst  of  a  camp  of  Mexicans — men,  saddles,  packs, 
and  rifles,  all  scattered  at  their  feet. 

"Buenos  dias!"  saluted  Bud,  as  the  blinking  men 
rose  up  from  their  blankets.  "Excuse  me,  amigos, 
I  am  in  a  hurry!" 

"A  donde  va?  A  donde  va?"  challenged  a  bearded 
man  as  he  sprang  up  from  his  brush  shelter. 

"To  the  pass,  senor,"  answered  Hooker,  still 
politely,  but  motioning  for  Gracia  to  ride  on  ahead. 
"Adios!" 

"Who  is  that  man?"  bellowed  the  bearded  leader, 
turning  furiously  upon  his  followers.  "Where  is 
my  sentinel?  Stop  him!" 


270  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

But  it  was  too  late  to  stop  him.  Bud  laid  hia 
quirt  across  the  rump  of  the  roan  and  spurred  for 
ward  in  a  dash  for  cover.  They  whisked  around  the 
point  of  a  hill  as  the  first  scattered  shots  rang  out; 
and  as  a  frightened  sentinel  jumped  up  in  their 
path  Bud  rode  him  down.  The  man  dropped  his 
gun  to  escape  the  fury  of  the  charge  and  in  a  mad 
clatter  they  flung  themselves  at  a  rock-slide  and 
scrambled  to  the  bench  above.  The  path  was 
rocky,  but  they  pressed  forward  at  a  gallop  until,  as 
the  sun  came  up,  they  beheld  the  summit  of  the  pass. 

"We  win!"  cried  Bud,  as  he  spurred  up  the  last 
incline. 

As  he  looked  over  the  top  he  exploded  in  an  oath 
and  jerked  Copper  Bottom  back  on  his  haunches. 
The  leader  of  a  long  line  of  horsemen  was  just  com 
ing  up  the  other  side,  not  fifty  feet  below  him.  Bud 
looked  to  each  side — there  was  no  escape — and 
then  back  at  the  frightened  girl. 

"Keep  behind  me,"  he  commanded,  "and  don't 
shoot.  I'm  going  to  hold  'em  up!" 

He  jumped  his  horse  out  to  one  side  and  landed 
squarely  on  the  rim  of  the  ridge.  Gracia  drew  her 
horse  in  behind  him  and  reached  for  the  pistol  in  her 
holster;  then  both  together  they  drew  their  guns  and 
Bud  threw  down  on  the  first  man. 

"Go  on!"  he  ordered,  motioning  him  forward  with 
his  head.  "Pr-r-ronto/"  He  jerked  out  his  rifle 
with  his  left  hand  and  laid  it  across  his  lap. 

"Hurry  up  now!"  he  raged,  as  the  startled  Mex 
ican  halted.  "Go  on  and  keep  a-going,  and  the  first 
man  that  makes  a  break  I'll  shoot  him  full  of  holes!" 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

He  sat  like  a  statue  on  his  shining  horse,  his  six- 
shooter  balanced  to  shoot,  and  something  in  his 
very  presence — the  bulk  of  his  body,  the  forward 
thrust  of  his  head,  and  the  burning  hate  of  his  eyes 
— quelled  the  spirits  of  the  rebels.  They  were  a  rag 
tag  army,  mounted  on  horses  and  donkeys  and  mules 
and  with  arms  of  every  known  make. 

The  fiery  glances  of  the  American  made  them 
cringe  as  they  had  always  cringed  before  their  mas 
ters,  and  his  curses  turned  their  blood  to  water. 
He  towered  above  them  like  a  giant,  pouring  forth 
*  torrent  of  oaths  and  beckoning  them  on  their  way, 
and  the  leader  was  the  first  to  yield. 

With  hands  half-raised  and  jaw  on  his  breast  he 
struck  spurs  to  his  frightened  mule  and  went  dash 
ing  over  the  ridge. 

The  others  followed  by  twos  and  threes,  some 
shrinking,  some  protesting,  some  gazing  forth 
villainously  from  beneath  their  broad  hats.  As 
they  looked  back  he  whirled  upon  them  and  swore  he 
would  kill  the  first  man  that  dared  to  turn  his  head. 

After  all,  they  were  a  generation  of  slaves,  those 
low-browed,  unthinking  peons,  and  war  had  not 
made  them  brave.  They  passed  on,  the  whole  long 
line  of  bewildered  soldiery,  looking  in  vain  for  the 
men  that  wrere  behind  the  American,  staring  blankly 
at  the  beautiful  woman  who  sat  so  courageously  by 
his  side. 

When  the  last  had  gone  by  Bud  picked  up  his 
rifle  and  watched  him  around  the  point.  Then 
he  smiled  grimly  at  Gracia,  whose  eyes  were  still 
round  with  wonder,  and  led  the  way  down  the  trail. 


XXVIII 

THE  high  pass  and  the  insurrectos  were  behind 
them  now  and  the  rolling  plains  of  Agua 
Negra  were  at  their  feet.  To  the  northeast 
the  smoke  banners  of  the  Gadsden  smelters  lay  like 
ribbons  across  the  sky,  and  the  line  was  not  far 
away. 

Yet,  as  they  came  down  from  the  mountains,  Bud 
and  Gracia  fell  silent  and  slackened  their  slashing 
pace.  The  time  for  parting  was  near,  and  partings 
are  always  sad. 

Bud  looked  far  out  across  the  valley  to  where  a 
train  puffed  in  from  the  south,  and  the  sight  of  it 
made  him  uneasy.  He  watched  still  as  it  lay  at  the 
station  and,  after  a  prolonged  stare  in  the  direction 
of  Agua  Negra,  he  reined  sharply  to  the  north. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Gracia,  coming  out  of  her 
reverie. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  answered  Bud,  slumping  down  in 
his  saddle.  "I  see  the  railroad  is  open  again — the* 
might  be  somebody  up  there  looking  for  us." 

"You  mean—" 

"Well,  say  a  bunch  of  rurales." 

He  turned  still  farther  to  the  north  as  he  spoke  and 
spurred  his  jaded  horse  on.  Gracia  kept  her  roan 
beside  him,  but  he  took  no  notice,  except  as  he 

scanned  the  line  with  his  bloodshot  eyes.     He  was  a 

272 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  273 

hard-looking  man  now,  with  a  rough  stubble  of  beard 
on  his  face  and  a  sullen  set  to  his  jaw.  As  two  horse 
men  rode  out  from  distant  Agua  Negra  he  turned 
and  glanced  at  Gracia. 

"Seems  like  we  been  on  the  run  ever  since  we  left 
Fortuna,"  he  said  with  a  rueful  smile.  "Are  you 
good  for  just  one  more?" 

"What  is  it  now?"  she  inquired,  pulling  herself 
together  with  an  effort.  "Are  those  two  men 
coming  out  to  meet  us?  Do  you  think  they'd  stop 
us?" 

"That's  about  our  luck,"  returned  Hooker. 
"But  when  we  dip  out  of  sight  in  this  swale  here 
we'll  turn  north  and  hit  for  the  line." 

"All  right,"  she  agreed.  "My  horse  is  tired,  but 
I'll  do  whatever  you  say,  Bud." 

She  tried  to  catch  his  eyes  at  this,  but  he  seemed 
lost  in  contemplation  of  the  horsemen. 

"Them's  rurales"  he  said  at  last,  "and  heading 
straight  for  us — but  we've  come  too  far  to  get  caught 
now.  Come  on!"  he  added  bruskly,  and  went 
galloping  up  the  swale. 

For  two  miles  they  rode  up  the  wash,  their  heads 
below  the  level  of  the  plain,  but  as  Bud  emerged  at 
the  mouth  of  the  gulch  and  looked  warily  over  the 
cut  bank  he  suddenly  reached  for  his  rifle  and 
measured  the  distance  to  the  line. 

"They  was  too  foxy  for  me,"  he  muttered,  as 
Gracia  looked  over  at  the  approaching  rurales. 
"But  I  can  stand  'em  off,"  he  added,  "so  you  go 
ahead." 

"No!"  she  cried,  coming  out  in  open  rebellion. 


274  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"Well,  I  won't  leave  you— that's  all!"  she  declared, 
as  he  turned  to  command  her.  "Oh,  come  along, 
Bud!"  She  laid  an  implusive  hand  on  his  arm  and 
he  thrust  his  gun  back  into  the  sling  with  a  thud. 

"All  right!"  he  said.  "Can't  stop  to  talk  about 
it.  Go  ahead — and  flay  the  hide  off  of  that  roan!" 

They  were  less  than  a  mile  from  the  line,  but  the 
rurales  had  foreseen  their  ruse  in  dropping  into 
the  gulch  and  had  turned  at  the  same  time  to  inter 
cept  them.  They  were  pushing  their  fresh  horses 
to  the  utmost  now  across  the  open  prairie,  and  as 
the  roan  lagged  and  faltered  in  his  stride  Bud  could 
see  that  the  race  was  lost. 

"Head  for  that  monument!"  he  called  to  Gracia, 
pointing  toward  one  of  the  international  markers  as 
he  faced  their  pursuers.  "You'll  make  it — they 
won't  shoot  a  woman!" 

He  reached  for  his  gun  as  he  spoke. 

"No,  no!"  she  cried.  "Don't  you  stop!  If  you 
do  I  will!  Come  on!"  she  entreated,  checking  her 
horse  to  wait  for  him.  "You  ride  behind  me — they 
won't  dare  shoot  at  us  then!" 

Bud  laughed  shortly  and  wheeled  in  behind  her, 
returning  his  gun  to  its  sling. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "we'll  ride  it  out  together 
then!" 

He  laid  the  quirt  to  the  roan.  In  the  whirl  of 
racing  bushes  a  white  monument  flashed  up  suddenly 
before  them.  The  rurales  were  within  pistol-shot 
and  whipping  like  mad  to  head  them.  Another 
figure  came  flying  along  the  line,  a  horseman,  wav 
ing  his  hands  and  motioning.  Then,  riding  side  by 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  275 

side,  they  broke  across  the  boundary  with  the 
baffled  rurales  yelling  savagely  at  their  heels. 

"Keep  a-going!"  prompted  Hooker,  as  Gracia 
leaned  back  to  check  her  horse.  "Down  into  the 
gulch  there — them  rurales  are  liable  to  shoot  yet!" 

The  final  dash  brought  them  to  cover,  but  as 
Bud  leaped  down  and  took  Gracia  in  his  arms  the 
roan  spread  his  feet,  trembled,  and  dropped  heavily 
to  the  ground. 

"He'll  be  all  right,"  soothed  Bud,  as  Gracia  still 
clung  to  his  arm.  Then,  as  he  saw  her  gaze  fixed 
beyond  him,  he  turned  and  beheld  Philip  De 
Lancey. 

It  was  the  same  Phil,  the  same  man  Bud  had  called 
pardner,  and  yet  when  Hooker  saw  him  there  he 
stiffened  and  his  face  grew  hard. 

"Well?"  he  said,  slowly  detaching  Gracia's 
fingers  and  putting  her  hand  away. 

As  Phil  ran  forward  to  greet  them  he  stepped 
sullenly  off  to  one  side.  What  they  said  he  did  not 
know,  for  his  mind  was  suddenly  a  blank;  but  when 
Phil  rushed  over  and  wrung  his  hand  he  came  back 
to  earth  with  a  start. 

"Bud!"  cried  De  Lancey  ecstatically,  "how  can 
I  ever  thank  you  enough?  You  brought  her  back 
to  me,  didn't  you,  old  man?  Thank  God,  you're 
safe — I've  been  watching  for  you  with  glasses  ever 
since  I  heard  you  had  started!  I  knew  you  would 
do  it,  pardner;  you're  the  best  friend  a  man  ever 
had!  But — say,  come  over  here  a  minute — I  want 
to  speak  to  you." 

He   led   Hooker  off  to  one  side,   while  Gracia 


276  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

watched  them  with  jealous  eyes,  and  lowered  his 
voice  as  he  spoke. 

"It  was  awful  good  of  you,  Bud,"  he  whispered, 
"but  I'm  afraid  you've  got  in  bad!  The  whole 
town  is  crazy  about  it.  Old  Aragon  came  up  on  the 
first  train,  and  now  they've  wired  that  you  killed 
Del  Rey.  By  Jove,  Bud!  wasn't  that  pulling  it  a 
little  strong?  Captain  of  the  rurales,  you  know — 
the  whole  Mexican  government  is  behind  him — and 
Aragon  wants  you  for  kidnapping!" 

"What's  that?"  demanded  Gracia,  as  she  heard 
her  own  name  spoken. 

Bud  looked  at  Phil,  who  for  once  was  at  a  loss  for 
words,  and  then  he  answered  slowly. 

"Your  father  is  down  at  the  station,"  he  said, 
"looking  for — you!" 

"Well,  he  can't  have  me!"  cried  Gracia  defiantly. 
"I'm  across  the  line  now!  I'm  free!  I  can  do 
what  I  please!" 

"But  there's  the  immigration  office,"  interposed 
Phil  pacifically.  "You  will  have  to  go  there — and 
your  father  has  claimed  you  were  kidnapped." 

"Ha!  Kidnapped!"  laughed  Gracia,  who  had 
suddenly  recovered  her  spirits.  "And  by  whom?" 

"Well — by  Bud  here,"  answered  De  Lancey 
hesitatingly. 

Gracia  turned  as  he  spoke  and  surveyed  Hooker 
with  a  mocking  smile.  Then  she  laughed  again. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said,  "I'll  fix  that.  I'll  tell 
them  that  I  kidnapped  him!" 

"No,  but  seriously!"  protested  De  Lancey,  as 
Bud  chuckled  hoarsely.  "You  can't  cross  the  line 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  277 

without  being  passed  by  the  inspectors,  and— well, 
your  father  is  there  to  get  you  back." 

"But  I  will  not  go!"  flung  back  Gracia. 

"Oh,  my  dear  girl!"  cried  De  Lancey,  frowning 
in  his  perplexity,  "you  don't  understand,  and  you 
make  it  awful  hard  for  me.  You  know  they're  very 
strict  now — so  many  low  women  coming  across  the 
line,  for — well,  the  fact  is,  unless  you  are  married 
you  can't  come  in  at  all!" 

"But  I'm  in!"  protested  Gracia,  flushing  hotly. 
"I'm- 

"They'll  deport  you,"  said  De  Lancey,  stepping 
forward  to  give  her  support. 

"I  know  it's  hard,  dear,"  he  went  on,  as  Bud 
moved  hastily  away,  "but  I've  got  it  all  arranged. 
Why  should  we  wait?  You  came  to  marry  me, 
didn't  you?  Well,  you  must  do  it  now — right 
away!  I've  got  the  license  and  the  priest  all  waiting 
— come  on  before  the  rurales  get  back  to  town  and 
report  that  you've  crossed  the  line.  We  can  ride 
around  to  the  north  and  come  in  at  the  other  side 
of  town.  Then  we— 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  cried  Gracia,  pushing  him  im 
pulsively  aside.  "I  am  not  ready  now.  And — ' 

She  paused  and  glanced  at  Bud. 

"Mr.  Hooker,"  she  began,  walking  gently  toward 
him,  "what  will  you  do  now?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Hooker  huskily. 

"Will  you  come  with  us — will  you — 

"No,"  said  Bud,  shaking  his  head  slowly. 

"Then  I  must  say  good-by?" 

She  waited,  but  he  did  not  answer. 


278  THE  DESERT  TRAIL 

"You  have  been  so  good  to  me/*  she  went  on, 
"so  brave,  and — have  I  been  brave,  too?"  she  broke 
in  pleadingly. 

Hooker  nodded  his  head,  but  he  did  not  meet  her 
eyes. 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  sighed.  uYou  have  heard  what 
Phil  has  said.  I  wish  now  that  my  mother  were 
here,  but — would  you  mind  ?  Before  I  go  I  want  to 
— give  you  a  kiss!" 

She  reached  out  her  hands  impulsively  and  Hooker 
started  back.  His  eyes,  which  had  been  downcast, 
blazed  suddenly  as  he  gazed  at  her,  and  then  they 
flitted  to  Phil. 

"No,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  lifeless  and 
choked. 

"You  will  not?"  she  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"No!"  he  said  again,  and  she  shrank  away  before 
his  glance. 

"Then  good-by,"  she  murmured,  turning  away 
like  one  in  a  dream,  and  Bud  heard  the  crunch  of  her 
steps  as  she  went  toward  the  horses  with  Phil. 
Then,  as  the  tears  welled  to  his  eyes,  he  heard  a 
resounding  slap  and  a  rush  of  approaching  feet. 

"No!"  came  the  voice  of  Gracia,  vibrant  with 
indignation.  "I  say  no/"  The  spat  of  her  hand 
rang  out  again  and  then,  with  a  piteous  sobbing, 
she  came  running  back  to  Bud,  halting  with  the 
stiffness  of  her  long  ride. 

"I  hate  you!"  she  screamed,  as  Phil  came  after 
her.  "Oh,  I  hate  you!  No,  you  shall  never  have 
the  kiss!  What!  if  Bud  here  has  refused  it,  will  I 
give  a  kiss  to  you?  Ah,  you  poor,  miserable  crea- 


THE  DESERT  TRAIL  279 

tureP*  she  cried,  wheeling  upon  him  in  a  sudden  fit 
of  passion.  "Where  were  you  when  I  was  in 
danger?  Where  were  you  when  there  was  no  one  to 
save  me?  And  did  you  think,  then,  to  steal  a  kiss, 
when  my  heart  was  sore  for  Bud?  Ah,  coward! 
You  are  no  fit  pardner!  No,  I  will  never  marry 
you — never!  Well,  go  then!  And  hurry!  Oh, 
how  I  hate  you — to  try  to  steal  me  from  Bud!" 

She  turned  and  threw  her  arms  about  Hooker's 
neck  and  drew  his  rough  face  down  to  hers. 

"You  do  love  me,  don't  you,  Bud?"  she  sobbed. 
"Oh,  you  are  so  good — so  brave!  And  now  will 
you  take  the  kiss?" 

"Try  me!"  said  Bud. 


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STORIES    OF    WESTERN    LIFE 

May  be  had  whermr  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  SrosMt  A  Dimlap's  list    ' 

RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE,    ByZanoGrey. 
Illustrated  by  Douglas  Duer. 

In  this  picturesque  romance  of  Utah  of  some  forty  years  ago,  we 
are  permitted  to  see  the  unscrupulous  methods  employed  by  the  in 
visible  hand  of  the  Mormon  Church  to  break  the  will  of  those  refus 
ing  to  conform  to  its  rule. 

FRIAR  TUCK,    By  Robert  Alexander  Wason. 
Illustrated  by  Stanley  L.  Wood. 

Happy  Hawkins  tells  us,  in  his  humorous  way,  how  Friar  Tuck 
lived  among  the  Cowboys,  how  he  adjusted  their  quarrels  and  love 
affairs  and  how  he  fought  with  them  and  for  them  when  occasion 
required. 

THE    SKY  PILOT,    By  Ralph   Connor. 
Illustrated  by  Louis  Rhead. 

There  is  no  novel,  dealing  with  the  rough  existence  of  cowboys, 
so  charming  in  the  telling,  abounding  as  it  does  with  tha  freshest  ana 
the  truest  pathos. 

THE  EMIGRANT  TRAIL,    By  Geraldino  Bonner. 
Colored  frontispiece  by  John  Rae. 

The  book  relates  the  adventures  of  a  party  on  its  overland  pil 
grimage,  and  the  birth  and  growth  of  the  absorbing  love  of  two  strong 
men  for  a  charming  heroine. 

THE  BOSS   OF  WIND  RIVER,    By  A.  M.  Chisholn. 

Illustrated  by  Frank  Tenney  Johnson.        x 

This  is  a  strong,  virile  novel  with  the  lumber  industry  for  its  cen 
tral  theme  and  a  love  story  full  of  interest  as  a  sort  of  subplot. 

,  A  PRAIRIE  COURTSHIP,    By  Harold  Bindloss. 

}  A  story  of  Canadian  prairies  in  which  the  hero  is  stirred,  through 
the  influence  of  his  love  for  a  woman,  to  settle  down  to  the  heroic 
business  of  pioneer  farming. 

JOYCE  OF  THE  NORTH  WOODS,    By  Harriet  T.  Cornstock. 

Illustrated  by  John  Cassel. 

A  story  of  the  deep  woods  that  shows  the  power  of  love  at  work 
among  its  primitive  dwellers.  It  is  a  tensely  moving  study  of  the 
human  heart  and  its  aspirations  that  unfolds  itself  through  thrilling 
fcituation3  and  dramatic  developments. 

A*k  for  a  complete  free  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Coforigfited  Fiction 

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APH   23  t 

Mfi 

JUl    23  1940 

v,  AS  ^ 

H^  • 

*Mfl  18 

LD  21-95m  7,'37 

YB  32434 


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